


Stripped Bare

by deduce-my-heart (linds7), IamJohnLocked4life



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alley Blow Jobs, Alley Sex, Alternate Universe, Ballet Dancer Sherlock, Blow Jobs, Captain John Watson, Car Sex, Dirty Talk, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Frottage, Hand Jobs, I can't believe I didn't tag for unrealistic refractory periods yet, I love updating the tags on this fic, I'm sure there's a pressing need for that, Implied Rimming, John "Three Continents" Watson, Lapdance, Light Bondage, M/M, No Refractory Period, Older John, POV Sherlock Holmes, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Public Blow Jobs, Romance, Sherlock isn't underage, Shower Sex, Spanking, Strip Tease, Stripper John, Stripper!john, The thirst is real, Virgin Sherlock, Younger Sherlock, ah to be young and randy, balletlock, eventually it will just have one tag: ALL THE SEX, for Sherlock at least, hahaha that tag's for my hellions, maybe 19?, pre-injury John, smollock, stay tuned!, there will probably be some heavier bondage in later chapters so keep checking the tags, to someday be real live rimming?, wow there are so many blow job tags on AO3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-04-14 22:38:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4582773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linds7/pseuds/deduce-my-heart, https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamJohnLocked4life/pseuds/IamJohnLocked4life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Posh pretty-boy Sherlock Holmes, danseur extraordinaire, never expected to be swept off his feet the night he deigned to visit a strip club. But then he never expected to meet John Watson, soldier and erotic dance god.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Club

**Author's Note:**

> From IamJohnLocked4life's [short headcanon](http://iamjohnlocked4life.tumblr.com/post/122523925253/deduce-my-heart-i-just-realised-i-need), based on senorakitty's [stripper!John art](http://senorakitty.tumblr.com/post/120745905223). Deduce-my-heart was so inspired by the idea that she started writing more and this fic just sort of...happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 is by IamJohnLocked4life.

_Bored_.

Sherlock Holmes, principal danseur in the British Royal Ballet, was in a strip club, and he was bored.

Not that he was surprised; he didn't know what he'd been expecting. As usual, his training had gone late into night, tirelessly grinding away at the same routine until his partner had stalked off in a huff, muttering something about unreasonable standards and prima donnas under her breath. It was for the best; Sherlock couldn't suffer the idiots surrounding him for much longer. Which was why his choice of this particular location was at the very least misguided, if not delusional. If there was anywhere in the vast field of stage performance where idiots flourished, surely it would be in the realm of male exotic "dance". Yet somehow, as he walked by the garishly lit marquee of the club, he felt drawn to it, compelled to enter. He must be truly exhausted, being led by instinct and prurient urges, as if on autopilot. His thoughts were dampened, in an odd haze of post-endorphin release following the intense exertion his body had endured. And now here he was, sat at the front of the small, too-intimate club, perched on a stool at the end of a catwalk which stretched from the stage into the centre of the room and terminated in a shiny gold pole.

And _god_ , he was bored out of his mind. Every insipid performer was more banal than the last, a succession of painfully obvious thrusts and shimmies executed with the single hope of eliciting a sexual response in the viewer. Predictable. This wasn't dancing— hell, it wasn't even rhythmic most of the time! It was all flexing and preening and posing for the best view of arse or pecs or whatever other attributes the overly beefed-up, shiny, waxed action figures were eager to display. Vanity at its most stomach-curdling. Sure, he was proud of his own body's form and ability, but that came from hours upon hours of relentless practise honing his craft, not a few hours a week in a gym lifting weights. Perhaps if these "performers" spent more time actually dancing, this wouldn't be the most excruciating experience in Sherlock's recent memory.

He was just slipping his arms back into his greatcoat in preparation to leave, when the lights went dark and the music hushed, the DJ's voice oozing over the PA system.

"Let's hear it one more time for Big Brendan!" Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled his scarf from his pocket. Honestly.

"Next up, we have a special treat for you. All the way from the sun-bleached sands of Afghanistan, back from active duty serving Queen and Country, please give it up for Captain Hotson of the 69th regiment!"

A single spotlight sprang to life, casting centre stage in a rosy pink glow. A deep sensual bass line thrummed in the air and vibrated the stool under him. And striding out on stage was the most breathtaking man Sherlock had ever seen.

The man was honour and purpose personified. Raw power came off him in waves, but it was restrained, as though the only thing that could hold him back was his own strength of will. He was dressed in what appeared to be authentic military camouflage, shades of khaki and taupe that spoke of sand and sweat and heat. His blond sun-kissed hair was a bit longer than the standard army-issue cut, but the style was clearly that of a soldier. His face was tanned and slightly weathered, worn enough to give the impression of having experienced his fair share of the world, but young enough to still be hungry for more. Sherlock put his age at 28, but the twinkle in the man’s eye made him adjust down to 25. Or could he be 30? Sherlock found himself so lost in the creases and planes of that timeless face that he nearly failed to notice when the man began unbuttoning his shirt.

Like everything else about the man, his movements were measured, slowly revealing a thin white cotton vest under the rough canvas shirt. Sherlock’s eyes were instantly drawn to the contrast between the pale fabric and the deeply bronzed skin of his neck. The shirt parted further to display the hard nubs of erect nipples beneath the vest, their darker hue evident through the near-translucent material. Sherlock was transfixed, at the edge of his seat, still primed to leap up, not to depart but to propel himself closer to the object of his attentions.

So far, the man on stage had hardly done what Sherlock could consider dancing. His hips were undulating with the music, and his controlled gestures were timed to the beat, but nowhere in his gentle gyrations were the overt flourishes and poorly-choreographed moves that had grated on Sherlock’s nerves all evening. Rather, he seemed to move as though he were alone, in his home undressing to a song that happened to come on the radio, something he hadn’t heard recently but stirred memories of past passions. It was natural and organic, unassuming and surprisingly intimate. Looking down the catwalk at the man on stage, it almost felt as though the two of them were the only ones in the room.

The illusion was shattered as the man finally finished unbuttoning his shirt and slid it down his shoulders, to the raucous catcalls and whistles of the other patrons in the club. Still, he seemed to take no notice of their lewd adoration; he didn’t flash cheeky smiles or winks or — god forbid — blow kisses as some of the performers had. Instead, he gazed down as he uncovered flexing biceps and well-muscled forearms graced with a fine dusting of golden hair, which Sherlock couldn’t help but note was the same colour as his eyelashes. He let the garment fall from his wrists, and brought those strong soldier hands up his hips and across his chest, stroking his body as though discovering the sensation of touch for the first time. He seemed entirely captivated by his own fingers on fabric and skin, and Sherlock struggled not to blink. He didn’t want to miss a single moment.

The heavy bass slowly ramped up in speed and intensity, the throbbing rhythm driving Sherlock’s heartbeat harder and faster. The man on stage responded without conscious thought, intuitively snapping his hips with increased vigour as he stroked his hard nipples through the thin fabric of the vest. The spotlight warmed from sunset pink to blazing orange, and the air suddenly became thick and heated. The man arched his back as though overcome by a wave of pleasure, then began to stride down the catwalk… directly towards Sherlock. All the hair on Sherlock’s body rose to attention, instantly electrified. The man’s hands continued to roam over his body, fingertips skating up his neck and into his hair, which was now darkened with sweat. He ran his fingers through his hair, equal parts combing and fisting the short strands with wanton abandon, leaving it in utter debauched disarray. He looked wild and feral, a dangerous creature let loose on the prowl, sure to devour any who crossed his path. And _god_ , Sherlock wanted to be devoured.

As he approached the pole, the man's hungry eyes locked on Sherlock's, and Sherlock felt a frisson of heat run through his body. Beads of sweat broke out at his brow and his palms were uncomfortably damp. He realised his woolen scarf was still clutched tight in his hands; he had been clenching and twisting it in his lap. It was instantly forgotten again as the man reached the end of the catwalk, eyed the gleaming gold pole, and licked his lips. He reached out as if to take it in hand, but instead hovered his fingertips a hair's breadth away, following its long straight line with something akin to worship. He caught his bottom lip with his teeth as if biting back his desire, then in a blur of motion too fast to follow, he had hooked a leg around the pole and spun around, dipping backward to unfurl in front of Sherlock. The sudden grace stole the air from Sherlock's chest, and it took him a moment to recentre and process the bowed body and arched neck splayed out before him. He followed the taut lines down to upturned chin and inverted face, and met the most intense cobalt blue eyes he had ever seen staring back at him. The man's arms were stretched overhead, fingertips grazing the edge of the stage where Sherlock sat, close enough to brush Sherlock's knee as he swept them in a wide arc. The touch sent a white-hot jolt up Sherlock's thigh, sparking fire between his legs, and he readjusted the muffler in his lap to cover his growing arousal.

The man's hands were now back at his hips, fingers hooking under the hem of his vest as they stroked up his sides, revealing chiseled tan abs glistening with sweat. The spotlight had continued to brighten as it followed him down the runway, and now shone golden, highlighting each bronzed ripple of muscle like the midday sun. When he reached his ribs, his pace slowed, drawing the fabric over his chest inch-by-maddening-inch. Sherlock held his breath as the hem reached those darkened circles of sensitised skin, desperate to see them uninhibited by the thin shroud of white. The man's eyes fluttered shut as he teased the fabric over his nipples, back and forth to the beat, working their stiffened peaks harder and harder until Sherlock was certain they would pierce through the gauzy vest. At last, with an inaudible sigh from softly parted lips, he lifted the hem over his pecs, arching his back even further until the tips of his sweat-spiked hair nearly touched the stage.

His nipples were deep dusky pink, a shade darker than his sweet lips and just as tempting. The areolas were perfectly round and smooth, and Sherlock wanted to feel their texture under his tongue, to know their taste. His mouth watered at the thought. He was so close, he would only have to dip his head and he would be right there, lips wrapped around the rosy bullseye, tongue flicking over the hard centre, sucking with desperate need. He didn't feel himself sway forward until the man's eyes caught his own again, arresting him with their steely gaze. In a spiral of limbs, the man executed a complex manoeuvre that resulted in his body upright and halfway up the pole, his vest in his hands. He had looped the garment around the pole, and used it now to ease his sinuous slide back down, slowly spinning on his descent with one leg bent in a simulacrum of a pirouette. The extension of his leg drew Sherlock's eye to the elegant arch of his foot, perfectly en pointe, and it was a testament to his complete absorption that this was the first time he noticed the man was barefoot. He exuded such innate dominance that despite his relatively short stature, Sherlock would have sworn a moment ago that he must have been clad in combat boots, but no; surprisingly delicate ankles tapered to pointed toe, slender feet paler than the rest of his skin. The contrast of strength and grace was stunning.

The man alit on stage, light and adept as a cat leaping from a perch, absorbing the shock in a seamless undulation that rippled up his body and out his fingertips, flinging the vest behind him in one fluid motion. Everything about the move felt natural and spontaneous, though the discarded garment landed in the centre of the catwalk with absolute precision. The words _military training_ flitted through Sherlock's head, an inexplicable shiver following in their wake.

With a sharp pivot, the man spun back to the pole, caught it with the crook of his knee and outstretched hand, and swept out in a wide circle, swooping over Sherlock's head like a bird in flight. His other hand came to meet the first on the pole, and now both his legs were stretched wide, nearly in full splits as they rotated whip-fast, bare heels catching the light in a blur of brilliant yellow. The whir of limbs evoked images in Sherlock's mind of chopper blades over blinding desert sands, heat distortion melting the landscape into a surreal haze of liquid shapes. Indeed, the rest of the club had vanished, fading into an indistinct fog of shadow and sound. The only thing that existed, the one solid form in a vast and empty universe, was the man before him, vibrant and buzzing with the life force of creation. He was colour and light and pure energy incarnate.

His legs scissored as they corkscrewed up above his head, twisting and twirling around the pole to lock at the ankles, the tips of his toes touching the ceiling. He hung suspended for a breathless moment, back arched and arms outstretched like a sacrificial saviour, and then his hands were on the pole again, gripping its base as his legs cartwheeled back to earth. He landed on the balls of his feet, hands still clasped around brass, his spine curved backwards in a perfect bow. Every muscle was taut and trembling. A single drop of sweat rolled down his chest, following the line of his sternum to the hollow of his throat, and Sherlock tracked its progress with undisguised thirst. Only when it reached the cleft of his chin did Sherlock notice that the man's eyes were on him again, staring with a ferocity that lit something dark deep within Sherlock's belly and sent molten heat surging through his veins. Deliberately, the man uncurled his fingers and slowly rose, hands ghosting along the pole, propelled upwards by the strength of his core alone. He held Sherlock's gaze the whole way, a silent challenge, daring him to look away. Sherlock would not have broken this charged, intimate connection if his life depended on it. The entire club could go up in flames and Sherlock wouldn't even blink.

At last the man reached the top of his ascent and had to break their heated gaze, dropping his chin to chest as he rolled his shoulders. From the back, he was no less compelling. His blond hair shone like the sun, the lighter tips glinting with gold under the hot spotlight. The nut brown skin at the nape of his neck was the darkest part of his body, the tanning pattern consistent with the collar of his uniform, though the even gradation of deep bronze that spread out across his broad shoulders told Sherlock he opted to go shirtless whenever possible. The thought of him off-duty and bare-chested under a clear blue sky momentarily made Sherlock's vision go fuzzy, but he was brought back to the present by the rhythmic flexing of muscles as the man swayed to the beat. The snap of his hips drew Sherlock's eyes down to his narrow waist, and Sherlock stared at the round swell of his arse, desperate to know its curves unencumbered by thick camouflage fatigues.

As if reading his mind, the man spun around to face him, hands trailing the line of fine sandy hair that led from navel to waistband, fingertips flirting along the boundary of fabric and skin. His thumbs toyed with the overlapping juncture just above the button, and Sherlock bit his lip in frustrated anticipation. The man stroked his fingers down the front seam, spreading open the flap with one hand and running the nails of the other up the exposed zip. A tremor shook his body at his own teasing touch, and a sympathetic quake shuddered through Sherlock, so attuned to the man on stage that his body responded in kind. Thumbs pulled at the closure, tension evident in stretched fabric and taut tendons. The button strained under opposing forces, and it was almost enough to pop free. The strong, capable fingers paused in their ministrations, and Sherlock looked up to see those storm blue eyes staring down at him. In their depths, roiling passions churned beneath a veneer of calm control. Sherlock's mouth was parched bone-dry, and he realised it hung slightly open, breath gusting in shallow pants, like desert wind whipping over the dunes.

The man raised one eyebrow at Sherlock meaningfully.

Inquiring. Challenging. Demanding.

Sherlock could only nod dumbly in response, mouth agape. The man's eyes twinkled, like sunlight glancing off hot sands, the suggestion of playful humour sparkling over blazing heat, but the smile did not reach his lips. Those were parted to allow a pink tongue to flick out, wet them, coat them in a glossy sheen. This was not the faux-coy lip licks Sherlock had suffered earlier in the night, the explicit outlining of each curve of the mouth which Sherlock found more ridiculous than erotic. No, this was instinctual; pure primal reaction, sparked by thirst and driven by need. In that moment, he could not help but lick his lips, and Sherlock unconsciously mirrored the action.

With a deft flick, the button slid out of its hole, exposing a small tan V, one more inch of skin revealed. The man grasped the zip between thumb and forefinger and Sherlock held his breath. Slowly, tooth-by-tooth, he drew the zip down, parting the fabric as he went.

Red.

Sherlock's brain went offline for a moment, the unexpectedly bright colour shocking him into an unseeing daze. Just… red.

When he came back to himself, blinking rapidly to clear the crimson veil from his vision, he saw the man had finished with his flies and was easing the fatigues from his hips. Tight abdominals gave way to flexing thighs, smooth golden planes curved over the sharp ridge of hipbones, falling into dramatic slopes and mouth-watering hollows framed by muscle and tendon, all lines leading down, down, down. Suddenly there was so much skin, but Sherlock’s eyes were helplessly drawn to _that red_. It was little more than a scrap of silk, barely covering anything at all, but what it did cover was… impressive. Most impressive. Sherlock would not have thought a man of that height would have such sizable length and girth, but the evidence was literally right in front of his face. Very little was left to the imagination, yet Sherlock found himself wondering what he looked like completely bare, wanted to learn every vein and ridge, was desperate to know the exact colour of his cock, the weight of it in his hand, the feel of it under his tongue.

He was startled by the intensity of his desire, the obscenity of his thoughts. Granted, he was in a strip club, and he supposed this was what one was expected to think of in such a place, but he had never had this sort of reaction to a performer before. Sure, he watched porn from time to time, but more often than not he found his deductions about the actors distracting at best (day job at the post, has two roommates, secretly in love with one but hasn’t told him about his “acting career” yet), completely off-putting at worst (had syphilis twice, recently contracted HPV but doesn’t know it yet, steals petty cash from his mother). Live performers were not any better, and perhaps a fair bit worse, since their proximity and interaction with the crowd provided Sherlock with an overabundance of data about their shallow, meaningless lives. Tonight had been proof of that, his boredom and disgust so intense that he had been ready to swear off men all together and just be done with it.

And then, this man had come on stage and Sherlock’s entire body lit up like a Christmas tree, sparking to life with electric urges he hadn’t thought himself capable of experiencing. More than just his body, the man clearly engaged Sherlock’s mind, absorbing his entire focus in a way that no one had done before. All-consuming. Addicting. Sherlock could already feel the pull, the feeling that this was not enough, would never be enough, that he could watch this man dance all night and still not have his fill. The thought filled him with equal parts terror and exhilaration, which only served to heighten his aroused senses.

The man was leaning back against the pole, camouflage pooled at his ankles, swaying to the beat as he ran his hands over his body. He touched himself unselfconsciously, and again Sherlock was struck by the difference in his caresses from anyone else he had seen that night. The other men had used their hands to display, to direct attention, painfully conscious of their movements and the eyes of their audience on them. _This_ man, this strong, proud, fierce soldier, appeared completely unaware that anyone else was watching him as he stroked his sculpted thighs, rippling abs, powerful chest. His fingertips traced swirling patterns through the glistening sheen of sweat that covered his body. His eyes were closed and he was breathing heavily through his nose, head lolling back as he rubbed himself against the pole. It was the most erotic thing Sherlock had ever seen.

It distantly occurred to Sherlock that most of the performers tonight had worn tear-away trousers; the rest had come on stage in nothing more than tiny shorts or pants. One more way this man was entirely unique. His military-issue gear was not modified in any way, and the heavy khakis bunched at his feet only enhanced how nearly naked he was. He looked exposed, coming undone and unable to stop himself long enough to properly undress. It was real and visceral, authentic in a way that had nothing to do with appearances and ease and everything to do with pure unbridled passion. He was lost in his own pleasure, and nothing else mattered.

Just as Sherlock was considering the complementary dichotomy of silken red cloth and rough taupe canvas, wondering how the weight of the trousers must have felt rubbing against the thin material underneath, the man on stage did something startling, so startling that Sherlock’s breath seized in his throat. Sherlock was not used to being caught by surprise, but the rapid flurry of movement left him completely off-balance, his oh-so-brilliant mind furiously trying to follow the sequence of actions, and utterly failing. Somehow, the man had whipped his legs up over his head (Sherlock could swear he had felt the soft brush of canvas in his curls), locked his ankles just above where his hands gripped the pole, then hooked his thumbs through the material and extracted his legs, which were now splayed wide out behind him, hovering several feet above the floor. At least, that was what Sherlock’s scrambled brain was able to piece together after the fact. All he was really able to notice at the moment was the way the trousers swung from the pole, gripped firmly in those strong, skillful hands, and the tension throughout the man’s body, rigid and quivering with effort. How he managed to suspend himself by sheer strength of grip and tightness of muscle was beyond Sherlock’s comprehension. By this point, Sherlock was beyond caring about the how, beyond all rational thought, for perhaps the first time in his life. He could only marvel at the fine sheen of sweat that coated the man’s body, head to toe, gleaming under the spotlight.

Slowly, and with infinite control, the man swept his legs forward, toes pointed, quadriceps and calves tensing, flexing, straining. His feet dipped down, nearly touching the floor before rising back up, spread in a perfect V. He was practically straddling the pole, though his thighs were parted wide enough to preclude contact. The muscle control required was incredible, and Sherlock marvelled at the power he commanded. If you had asked Sherlock this morning, he would have assured you that he had complete and utter control over his body, that his body was mere transport, his to direct and bend to his will. But in light of the display before him, and the insistent erection between his legs, he was forced to seriously reevaluate that claim. At the moment, he felt helpless, entirely at the mercy of the magnificent being on stage.

The beat of the song started to build again, its driving rhythm reaching some primal crescendo, and the man responded in kind. He wrapped his (beautifully, gorgeously, _exquisitely_ ) muscled legs around the pole, and inverted once again, his back arching as it fell towards earth. And Christ, _his arse_. Sherlock hadn’t seen it unclothed, and now it that it was revealed, he knew with a bone-deep certainty that he had never seen anything so beautiful in all his life. The scant covering of red silk did not extend to the rear (Sherlock was reticent to use the word “thong”, even in his most private of thoughts), and the sight of taut, rounded muscle parted around the shiny gold pole was almost more than he could take. The skin was tan, smooth, and flawless. Sherlock found himself leaning forward, wondering at its softness, desperate to touch, lick, taste the texture slick beneath his tongue. Fine blond hairs were scattered across his thighs, tapering off where they met those luscious curves in a tantalising crease, and Sherlock surged with the desire to run his fingers through them, brush against the grain and feel the contrast of wiry hair and smooth skin below. And then…and _then_ , his hands would continue their journey down, to flexing golden cheeks that gripped a metal rod, hot flesh clenched tight around cold brass.

Sherlock was lost in his fantasy, hands gripping his scarf with white-knuckled desperation, but the man on stage seemed oblivious to his plight. He arced and swayed, moving to the music as he all but fucked himself on the pole. Upside-down. Jesus fucking Christ. Sherlock would not survive this. He would surely perish before the song ended, despite the clear evidence of its near-climax.

As if sensing his despair, the man tilted his head back farther, lifting his chin and stretching his neck so he could look up, dark eyes blazing beneath gold lashes. They connected with Sherlock’s with an intensity that shot a bolt down his spine and left him shaking. Those eyes commanded attention, demanded he not look away. The man’s body was moving, writhing, contorting with athletic skill, executing a wide range of impressive feats, but Sherlock saw none of it, only dimly aware of movement in his periphery. His entire focus was dominated by that steely blue stare.

The man did not break contact, even when he spun around the pole, flipped upright, twisted and turned and spiralled, his gaze unerringly locked on Sherlock as he flew through the air. Sherlock distantly realised he must be using him as a focal point, a key tool to maintain balance and poise during a series of spins, but the thought melted away under the heat of his stare. Only when the man threw his head back, sweat spraying from the tips of his hair in a graceful arc, eyelids drifting shut, did Sherlock notice that his performance had come to an end. The music, the lights, the din of the club, all of it had been outside of his perception. Now, amidst the flutter of bills and the hoots of other patrons, the rest of the world started to seep back in. The spotlight had waned to a sultry crimson, the music ebbed into a slow throbbing pulse.

Sherlock wanted to stand and applaud. He wanted to shower the man with every last note in his wallet, and tuck his phone number into the elastic waistband framing that perfect tight arse, but he couldn’t move beyond the faint tremors of arousal that shook his body. His legs didn’t seem to work anymore. Which was _ridiculous_ ; his legs were his livelihood, his foundation, his work, but when faced with the force of the man onstage, his body betrayed him, powerless against such a brutal onslaught of unleashed sexuality. All he could do was sit, wide-eyed and panting, and watch as the man gave a small smile and nod to the audience before lowering himself to his knees. Bills were strewn about, papering the catwalk in a collage of bright colours, and he began to collect them on all fours, crawling across the stage. The view as he moved away did nothing to abate Sherlock’s overwhelming arousal. From his vantage, he could just glimpse the suggestive outline of barely covered flesh hanging heavy between his legs, accentuated in lurid red. Christ almighty, did he really have to crawl? Not that Sherlock was complaining, his eyes hungrily taking in as much data as possible while still yearning for more. It was just rather hard to breathe, and he desperately hoped he wouldn’t pass out before the man got off stage.

The man was making a circuit, slinking down the left side of the runway, then turning to come back up the right, almost methodical but for the sway of his hips. He lifted his head and locked his gaze back on Sherlock, holding it even as his hands continued to stack bills from the stage and his knees shifted forward. He was _prowling_ , golden and radiant like a lion in the sun-bleached savannah, and with each pace closer, Sherlock’s heartbeat quickened until the frantic patter bled into a deafening roar. Everything was on fire, his skin tingling and flushed and damp with sweat. Closer and closer and yet time seemed to slow, each move towards Sherlock taking infinitesimally longer than the last. It was Zeno’s paradox come to torture him; he would surely go mad, suspended in a state of eternal anticipation. The man was right in front of him now, a foot away, then less, a few scant inches. Sherlock could feel the heat coming off him; he was breathing heavily and glistening with sweat and utterly perfect. He licked his lips, and Sherlock bit back a whimper.

Still moving inexorably closer, the man leaned forward, fingers gripping the edge of the stage. His eyes fell to Sherlock’s mouth, his own mere centimetres away. Sherlock didn’t dare breathe. The faintest hint of a smile tugged at the man’s lips before they brushed past Sherlock’s cheek, hovering at his ear. His breath was hot, his voice a low growl as he whispered, “Back door, five minutes.”

With that, he swept up the stack of money and his discarded clothes and was gone. Sherlock sat there, slack-jawed and staring, until he could feel his legs again.

 


	2. The Alley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Back door, five minutes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 is by deduce-my-heart.

Sherlock arrived at the backdoor three minutes early, breathless and body thrumming with nervous energy. _God, that man…_ he had never seen his equal, either in masculine form or in erotic, vigorous moves. There was nothing soft or dainty about him or his dancing. Every thrust of his hips had purpose, every arch of that hard body had a bone deep confidence that just came off of him in waves. Though he had the avid attention of everyone in the room, it didn’t seem to matter at all. He was simply intent on his own enjoyment and pleasure, yet no one was free from his powerful spell. Least of all Sherlock. He had felt paralysed, his whole body had gone still except for his cock, which pulsed to the sway of the man’s body. Sherlock had never felt so captivated in all his life.

Sherlock shivered with the memory of his powerful, sweat-slick body in nothing but a red thong, glistening in the low light. He had actually salivated at the thought of seeing what lay beneath that soft, red silk. Though he was allowed—no—compelled to drink up every inch of this man’s skin, proudly on display, his eyes were continuously drawn back down to that bit of cloth, aching to see more.

Sherlock could tell the man actually had military service under his belt. More than likely he was of high rank, a captain at the very least. His commanding presence as well as the flash of his steel, blue eyes loudly proclaimed his rank—he was obviously used to giving orders and being obeyed, instantly. Sherlock’s breath hitched at the thought. This was no act. This man knew how to be in control. He could effortlessly capture a whole crowd’s attention, causing all those present to thirst for only him. Sherlock’s eyes and cock silently saluted this man, and he longed to offer himself up to him, to present his body unreservedly as an offering of pleasure to do with whatever he would. Sherlock moaned softly, even as he felt surprised at where his thoughts had taken him. Never had he come close to wanting to give up control and be possessed in this way… in every way a man could be possessed. Until now.

The door opened suddenly, shocking Sherlock back to the present. There the man stood, leaning against the door frame with casual confidence and a smirk. He was still blessedly shirtless, but now he wore his army cargos. They hung low on his hips, giving Sherlock a mouthwatering glimpse of the red silk thong underneath. _Holy fuck… he’s still wearing it… oh god._ Sherlock swallowed and held completely still, trying not to flinch as those piercing eyes travelled lazily up and down his body. It felt like a physical touch, and Sherlock tingled wherever his eyes fell.

“Well hello there beautiful.” His flirtatious, warm tone was like a shot of morphine, and Sherlock’s body instantly responded with a rush of heat all over. All thoughts abandoned him, and he felt completely helpless. He lacked all ability to open his mouth or form words as an overwhelming and unprecedented shyness kicked in.

The man spoke with a hint of humour in his voice. “My name is John, may I come a little closer?” Sherlock nodded, after several slow seconds had ticked by. John chuckled as he walked over, the musical sound of it erotic somehow, making Sherlock’s clothes seem too tight. John now stood a mere hot breath away, his eyes locked intently on Sherlock’s. There was dark promise in those deep-set eyes, and Sherlock gulped loudly and felt his face flush.

After another moment, John spoke again. “You are so gorgeous. So fucking lovely. You have a danseur’s body and graceful way of moving… am I right?” Sherlock’s startled look answered his question. “Well well well. What’s a fancy boy like you doing in a place like this?” John grinned wolfishly and leaned closer. “Like what you see?” At this, John started rolling his hips sensually, as though he were a belly dancer. The muscles in his arms, shoulders, and chest rippled on proud display and within Sherlock’s reach. “I bet I could teach you a few moves you’ve never tried.” John was still moving seductively, only now his body was brushing against Sherlock’s with every other roll of his hip.

Sherlock was panting, and a breathy whine escaped his lips, the only sound he was currently capable of in his overaroused state. John’s eyes brightened with hunger, and his voice lowered a whole octave. “You look nervous though… and perhaps you should be.” A playful grin spread across his face. “What’s your name, sexy?”

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth a few times, willing his vocal chords to cooperate and not cause him any further humiliation. Finally, he cleared his throat and croaked out “Sherlock... Sherlock Holmes,” a bit too breathlessly, and he silently cursed at himself.

“Well, _Sherlock Holmes._ ” The way John said his name, as if he belonged to him and him alone, made Sherlock want to groan. “I’d tell you I won’t bite…” John leaned in to whisper in his ear, “But I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”

Sherlock gasped and leaned back against the stone wall of the building, his legs almost giving out. A curl of hot desire was making its way down from his belly to his groin, and it was making him breathless. His arousal was reaching painful levels, and he closed his eyes, wishing that John would just take him already. _God help me… I’m wrecked from just his words._ Sherlock slouched down the wall a bit as John laid a hand on the wall near Sherlock’s head and leaned impossibly closer. Sherlock could smell traces of sweat and a hint of musk, and he unconsciously took a deep breath and arched his body towards John’s, desperate for contact.

John held his body just out of reach and spoke softly. “Do you have any idea, any at all, why I asked you to meet me out here? Hmmm?” John cocked his head to the side and licked his lips, drawing a whimper from Sherlock and a dark smile from John. “I ask because you’re acting like a bloody virgin, blushing so sweetly and squirming sensually in your fancy clothes as though you have no idea how close I am to ravishing you right now. God Sherlock, I want to feast on you all night if possible, though I know that would not even be enough time to do all the things I’ve been thinking of since I first clapped eyes on you, and though I admit your apparent innocence is making me rock hard, you need to speak up right the fuck now and tell me if you don’t want me to touch you.”

Sherlock held his breath and stared back at John wide-eyed. _Oh god yes… I want to be touched… I want to be overwhelmed by you…_ After a pause, John sighed and started to step back at Sherlock’s continued silence. Sherlock immediately panicked, which helped him find his voice at last.

“John!” He reached out and held John’s arm, his fingers trembling at the silky, hard muscle flexing beneath his touch. Sherlock blinked from the heady feeling of it and shook his head. He searched about for words to express his deep want, but all that came out was a desperate, “ _Please._ ”

A fire lit behind John’s eyes, and he immediately moved back in front of Sherlock, both hands on either side of his body, caging him in. Sherlock couldn’t take his eyes off of John’s mouth, longing to know the texture and taste of those pink lips, now so close. John’s breath seemed to be speeding up and his pupils were black as he took in Sherlock’s whole body once more.

All at once John leaned in to kiss Sherlock’s neck, just above his collar, and Sherlock’s head rolled back, thudding against the wall as he bared his neck for John. It was a slow, wet kiss, no doubt tasting Sherlock’s own sweat. A tongue darted out and then Sherlock’s legs buckled, with John catching him around the waist before he hit the ground. John laughed and Sherlock tried to hide his face against his shoulder in embarrassment.

“Fuck, Sherlock, you’re so sensitive. This isn’t… I mean… you have done this before, right?”

Sherlock quickly weighed his options. He had never done anything more than some self-exploration, but if John knew that, would he hold back? Or worse, tell him they shouldn’t do this at all? Did it really matter if John knew it was Sherlock’s first time? Sherlock decided to lie a bit, hoping that John would hurry before he came in his pants like an idiot.

“I… it’s been a long time. For me. Please continue.”

John stared at him with narrowing eyes, and briefly Sherlock feared he saw through his lie. But after a few moments, his eyes softened. “I just… I want to take you apart and devour you bit by bit. May I? Would you let me?” John’s mouth found Sherlock’s neck again, effectively silencing his reply, and gave a little nip before trailing wet kisses up along his jaw, licking and biting both. Finally he stopped and breathed harshly against Sherlock’s lips. “I want you so badly.” John teased Sherlock’s lips with his tongue, drawing back with an evil smirk when Sherlock tried to lean into the almost kiss. “I need you to say yes first, love.”

Sherlock huffed in frustration. “Yes John, for god’s sake, yes! Happy now?” John laughed, but before he could even move, Sherlock was leaning in and licking along his chest and shoulder, doing a bit of tasting of his own, now that he was feeling a little bolder. John’s scent was making him dizzy with need, smelling of spices, danger, and arousal.

John practically growled at Sherlock’s exploration, while his own hands slipped beneath Sherlock’s coat, wandering up and down his body. Sherlock shivered and licked a few more times, before latching on and sucking hard against the spot where John’s neck met his shoulder, wildly hoping to leave a permanent mark so that everyone would know that John was now his. John began to curse under his breath, before his fingers came to the front of Sherlock’s purple dress shirt and started to shakily unbutton it.

John glanced up at Sherlock. “This okay? I really want to see you, and touch your beautiful skin.”

Sherlock nodded vigorously, letting his coat fall to the ground as he waited for John to undo all the buttons. Halfway down, Sherlock ran out of patience. “Really John? Just let me! Apparently your talent for undressing on stage does not follow you in everyday life.” He stepped away to finish it himself, and then flung the shirt off. They were both finally shirtless.

John just stood there, eyes soaking Sherlock in. He started talking quietly, without ever lifting his eyes from Sherlock’s chest. “You git. Of course you know the whole point of being a stripper is to remove clothes slowly, teasingly. It’s an art form… one I excel at.” A predatory look flashed across John’s eyes, and he smiled devilishly up at Sherlock’s face. “I’m too distracted from wanting you right now, but if you’re lucky and interested, I could teach you a lesson later for your naughty behaviour…” Again John leaned close to whisper his filthy thoughts in Sherlock’s ear. “Tie you to my bed… refuse to let you come for hours while I _slowly_ take you apart and drink my fill of you.” Sherlock trembled at the words, hoping to god he’d be lucky enough.

John reached up and trailed a finger down Sherlock’s chest and then back up, before leaning in to capture one of his nipples in his mouth. He licked against it several times before teasing it between his teeth, applying just enough pressure for there to be a hint of pain, and then he suckled at it as though Sherlock was the source of the fountain of youth.

Sherlock’s breath was ragged, and his hands found John’s soft, blond hair, his fingers running through it and clutching sporadically. “OH, oh god… god John yes YES.” He didn’t even really know what he was saying, he just didn’t want John to stop, was desperate for John to keep going.

John then kissed his way slowly to the other nipple and it all started again. Sherlock whined low in his throat, suddenly aware that he could very well come from just this. He felt like he was on fire, and it took every last drop of self-control to not allow himself to go over the edge. John started pushing him back so that he was flush against the wall. Without warning, John dropped to his knees and looked up at Sherlock with worship in his eyes. His soft, blond eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks as he closed them for a moment, taking a deep breath.

John placed his hands on Sherlock’s hips and leaned forward, kissing his stomach slowly, stopping to swirl his tongue inside his bellybutton. Sherlock hissed and grabbed onto John’s shoulders for support. John paused for a moment and looked up into his eyes, desire stark across his face. John began to speak tenderly, interrupting himself every so often to lay another kiss on Sherlock’s ribs or stomach while gently running his fingers along his waist, where his trousers hung low on his hips.

“The moment I stepped out onto that stage I knew something was different. I could feel your eyes on me, Sherlock, your eyes. I thought I was just being ridiculous, I mean, everyone’s eyes are always on me, but no, I could feel the hairs on my arms and neck rise from the power of your gaze. And then when my eyes finally found yours, it was like… I don’t know… like a spiritual experience. Something just rose up inside of me… desire, yes, but something else. Something I’ve been searching years for. I just had to meet you.” John smiled almost shyly. “I didn’t even follow my routine tonight.” John shook his head and chuckled, placing several more kisses across Sherlock’s stomach. He then carefully began unbuttoning Sherlock’s trousers, never taking his eyes from Sherlock’s.

“I just moved my body for you, dancing as though you were the only one in the room. I was trying to seduce you, you know. I wanted you instantly. The moment my eyes alighted on you, sitting there so prim and proper-like, as though the queen herself had graced me with her presence. You seemed so unaffected, despite my best efforts… but then I caught a glimpse of how hard you were — you were trying to hide it with your hands, you naughty boy — but I saw. God I wanted you… I want you still. Sherlock, are you still hard for me?”

Sherlock was overwhelmed from both John’s words and what he was doing with his hands. “Y—yes John. I’m… hard… and wet… please.”

John smiled up at Sherlock with joy, and pulled down Sherlock’s trousers and pants, all in one go. Sherlock tensed as the cool air hit his erect, leaking penis. And suddenly he remembered that they were outside, in a back alley where anyone could happen by. “John… um… what if someone sees?”

John was hovering mere inches above him and just staring at Sherlock, his warm breath causing another drip to pulse out of his tip and slowly roll down the length of his cock. John licked his lips, and leaned in, capturing that drop on his tongue. He slowly licked up the shaft before looking back up at Sherlock.

“Then they’ve just received a free encore, yeah?” John smirked and leaned in, licking all the way around the glans at the tip, before kissing it chastely—as chastely as one can kiss a cock that is.

“Sherlock… Sherlock listen to me a moment. Before I do this, before I make you come, I want you to know, that I’ve never asked anyone to meet me after the show before. Ever. This…” John just shrugged his shoulders and gestured to the club. “This is just a job, yeah? I make a nice paycheck and it allows me to live comfortably in London.” John sighed and nuzzled his face into the coarse, dark hair at the base of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat as John took a deep, long breath and then looked back up at him. “I just… I just wanted you to know that this means something to me, okay?” Sherlock reached out his hand to caress John’s face, which suddenly looked so vulnerable from between his legs. John smiled up at him a moment, and Sherlock’s heart skipped a few beats.

The tender moment didn’t last long, and Sherlock barely registered a flash of hunger return to John’s face before he turned and took the head of his penis in his mouth, gently sucking while swirling his talented tongue all around it. John’s hand reached up and fondled his testicles while closing his eyes and sucking on the tip again and again.

“John… Jo—JOHN… hnggg… FUCK!” Sherlock was panting, his legs were wobbly and though he held onto John’s shoulders, he doubted he would be able to remain standing much longer. His fingers dug into John’s muscles, and he wondered if it hurt John at all… he didn’t seem to notice.

John pulled off and looked innocently up at Sherlock, his hands rubbing up and down Sherlock’s trembling thighs. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Oh! God no, John please… keep doing wha--FUCK!” John had leaned back down and taken Sherlock all the way down his throat, his hands tightening on Sherlock’s hips to keep him steady against the wall as he began to bob his head up and down. Sherlock was too weak to move; he could only watch helplessly as John fucked his own mouth on Sherlock’s cock. The wet heat, the incredible sensations were overwhelming, and Sherlock could feel the intense pleasure welling up inside of him, spreading from his cock throughout his whole body. He clutched at John’s hair, wanting to somehow warn him that he was about to come, to pull him off, but John ignored his weak tugs and just sped up, spearing the back of his throat again and again while swallowing around his cock. It was too much, and the extra pressure and sensation of being squeezed hurled Sherlock over the edge.

Before Sherlock could even utter another syllable, his whole body jerked violently. He arched off the wall with his head thrown back, eyes closed and mouth open, and silently came. He could feel the thick liquid pulsing out of him and down John’s throat. But the man wasn’t fazed at all; he sucked every last drop down. At this point, John’s strength alone was holding Sherlock up, his hands underneath Sherlock’s arse as Sherlock melted back against the wall, panting uncontrollably. John pulled off his cock, and gently licked him the rest of the way clean, before standing up.

“God that was amazing. You are so fucking beautiful when you come, you know that?”

Sherlock couldn’t even respond, he was too breathless. John helped him pull up his pants and zipped him back inside. He then leaned into Sherlock, their chests sticky and hot against one another, and he kissed Sherlock passionately.

Sherlock melted into his kiss, boneless still, and threw his arms around John, as their tongues languorously danced together. Sherlock finally pulled back when he felt John’s hardness against his hip.

“John! You’re still so hard! Here, may I help you with that?”

Sherlock reached down and rubbed his hand up and down John’s length through his cargo pants, and John groaned his approval, leaning into his touch. Sherlock carefully manoeuvred his hand down into John’s pants, feeling triumphant as his hand grasped his hot, moist length.

“Oh, fuck.” John suddenly tightened his hold on Sherlock’s waist, before reaching back around and purposely grabbing Sherlock’s arse with both hands, kneading it roughly with his fingers. Sherlock humped against John’s erection enthusiastically, overwhelmed by the feeling of John’s cock in his hand and John’s hands on his arse. He gasped when John slipped a hand down the back of his trousers, his middle finger diving between his cheeks to rub directly against his hole.

Sherlock’s hand movements stuttered, and his breathing began to speed up again. “John.” He breathed John’s name like a prayer, asking for more. “John… yes… take me.”

“Fuck, I want to Sherlock, yeah, I will. I’ll take you all night.” John paused as Sherlock let out a loud moan while he continued to rub against his most secret spot. “Oh Sherlock, yeah, I want to hear you. I want you to lose control with me. But, would you like to come back to my place first? I really do want to keep you all night. If that… if that sounds good to you?” John smiled and winked flirtatiously. “I promise to give you your very own, private lap dance… and I’ll wear the red thong for you— yeah I know you like that. I’ll wear it until you don’t want me to be wearing it anymore.”

Sherlock groaned as he pictured this, and he was already becoming a bit hard again. But then he remembered what he had been in the middle of doing.

“Wait, now? But… but I haven’t even made you come yet.”

“Oh darling, with what I have planned for us, it will be more than worth the wait, you’ll see. So… shall we go home?”

Sherlock’s eyes shone with the prospect, and impossibly his cock gave a little jerk of approval. “Yes, John. I would love that. Take me home.”


	3. The Cab Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yes, John. I would love that. Take me home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 is by deduce-my-heart.

They took a taxi to John’s apartment in silence. Sherlock was feeling about to burst, the memory of John’s finger dipping down to a sensitive part of him—a part that no one else had ever touched before—was still so vivid that it actually felt like John’s finger was still there, curious and insistent, circling as though demanding entry. _And that mouth._ Oh god… he’d never forget, till the day he dies, the way John’s hot, eager lips felt wrapped tightly around him. Or how he saw stars as John sucked his release down, refusing to let a drop go to waste. The heady memory made Sherlock feel weak and tingly all over. He took a deep, shaky breath, trying to steady the pool of arousal churning around inside of him. Why weren’t they at John’s flat yet? _For god’s sake!_ The damn taxi was going way too slow, and Sherlock wasn’t sure he could hold out much longer. He was achingly hard, and currently unable to do anything about it. He could feel himself slowly becoming irritable and morose from all the pent up sexual energy inside of him.

Sherlock tried to control his breathing, tried to stop his foot from tapping impatiently, and especially, to bite his tongue before he verbally attacked the cabbie for his frankly appalling driving skills, or actually, his complete lack thereof. _Did he even go to driving school?_ Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to empty his mind, reminding himself that it wouldn’t be long now. They had to almost be there.

In the midst of all his racing thoughts, he felt a hand on his, gently squeezing his fist that he hadn’t even realised was clenched on his knee. He looked over to find John staring at him with concern.

“Everything okay?” John’s thumb started gently rubbing little distracting circles on the inside of his wrist (taking his pulse?), and somehow that small action felt monumental and electric. Sherlock found his frustrations melting at the tenderness in those blue eyes. John’s fingers were soothing his soul while also adding coals to the fire. If only he could reach over and simply cling to the man. _Now that was an unexpected thought._ Sherlock briefly considered that he should be alarmed at these new, strange impulses, but he immediately pushed the thought away. He wanted this, and he would _not_ allow his over-analysing brain to fuck this up. John’s attention was entirely on him, as it should be, and Sherlock felt giddy and oh so lucky that he hadn’t left the club before John came out. Horror flickered across his features as it struck him how close he had come to never knowing John at all. How different his day would have been otherwise, so bleak and… solitary. Sherlock pushed down a vague feeling of panic at the thought; he could not bear to consider it.

Sherlock couldn’t believe the state of his own emotions after only a few bare hours of being in John’s presence. This had never happened to him in the past because he generally avoided people, but here he was, hopelessly attached. Sherlock had been warned against something like this, by an older, wiser brother. How could this happen? How had John captured his heart so thoroughly… so completely… so _quickly?_  John, whom he had just met, was already his whole world. Everyone and everything else paled in comparison to this man’s gaze, to his thrilling touch. Sherlock had never seen such erotic warmth or intense courage stamped like a tattoo, permanent and blatant, on anyone else. Dangerous and wild, his John was, a hidden treasure. And he had singled Sherlock out, picked him right out of a crowd to be his… what? To warm his bed for a night? Sherlock wasn’t exactly sure. But he’d be anything John wanted him to be; he’d beg down on his knees for it in fact. He had willingly left his dignity at the backdoor of the club anyway. He may not have much time to enjoy this, but he would make the most of it while it lasted, greedily grasping everything he could until the very moment he had to walk away. Sherlock would be strong when that time came—he’d managed it this far on his own, and he could keep on managing it.

The motion on his wrist stilled. “Sherlock? You’re scaring me now.”

Sherlock swiftly snapped back to himself. “Yes, John. Everything is perfect.” Sherlock was surprised at how true that statement was. He felt like he was on his way to paradise, with John as his personal tour guide. He tried not to worry about tomorrow, he absolutely refused to let his apparent sentiment taint the beauty of _right now_. Sherlock was no idiot. One did not go to a strip club, have a quickie at the backdoor, and then hope for anything beyond a one night stand. But John had said it meant something to him earlier—perhaps he would want to continue seeing Sherlock a bit after tonight.

 _Tonight_.

Sherlock’s heart soared. He couldn’t imagine anyone else in the world whom he would rather give himself to, body and soul. He smiled into John’s concerned eyes, wanting to reassure.

John glanced up at the driver and then leaned over, speaking low. “Listen, we don’t have to do anything… _sexual_ … when we get to my flat. Not if you’re not absolutely comfortable. I’d be happy just sipping tea and looking at you.” John’s slow smile radiated warmth. “You really are a sight to behold you know. Or maybe… we could put on some music and just… slow dance together? God I would love that. You’re so bloody graceful. I have a feeling you’re brilliant on your feet.” John licked his lips and smiled mischievously. “Well, when you’re not getting a blow job that is. You’re a gorgeous, quivering mess in that case.” Sherlock’s whole face and neck flushed, and he ducked his head down, thankful for the cover of darkness.

John lifted Sherlock’s hand, turned it over, and kissed the palm, lingering there several moments until Sherlock looked back up to find John’s penetrating eyes fastened on his person. Sherlock’s pulse stuttered and then raced, and by the sudden warmth in John’s gaze, it was obvious he felt it on his lips… and now tongue. Sherlock groaned. Eventually John freed his mouth to murmur softly. “So, please don’t feel any pressure, okay?”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed in frustration. _Enough was enough_. He cleared his throat. “John, I… that all sounds lovely. Really. But everything is fine. _Everything_.” Sherlock looked at John with his best serious, no-nonsense face. They stared at each other silently for a long time.

“Well… okay then. You just looked… worried or something. But just know that at any point tonight, if I am overwhelming you, and not in a good way, you just tell me to stop.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed, turning to face his window. John’s hand immediately captured Sherlock’s jaw, firmly drawing his face back to his own and close enough for Sherlock to clearly see his black pupils now flashing fierce with the passing street lights. John’s voice came out low and commanding, effectively incinerating all of Sherlock’s innards. He inhaled sharply and held his breath as John’s grip tightened.

“I mean it, Sherlock. Tell me that you understand and will comply if necessary. _Right. Now._ Or so help me god...”

Fuck.

Sherlock took a shaky breath, and hastily replied, so overcome and breathless that he stumbled over his words.

“Y—yes, sir. I understand.” Sherlock shivered and watched wide-eyed as John continued to look at him warningly; his gaze could only be described as smouldering, and it was lighting Sherlock on fire. Eventually he relaxed and let go of Sherlock’s jaw.

“Alright. That’s settled then.” His hand went back to Sherlock’s, fingers running up and down his skin as though nothing had happened.

Sherlock's gaze skittered across John's content face, down his neck and chest, now covered by the hastily-donned layers from the club, to rest on the perfectly stitched WATSON over his heart. All Sherlock could think about was how to make John angry again, but he also wanted to make love to him at the same time. _Oh god_. It was risky, because angry John might kick him out of bed… but angry passionate Captain Watson taking charge in the bedroom would be a fucking delight. Sherlock wanted more. John’s forcefulness was fuelling the fire of his lust, and he shifted uncomfortably, trying to adjust the bulge in his pants. He was damp and twitching down there, his arousal reaching a fever pitch. Sherlock groaned in frustration. He didn’t know how to express that he wanted John to stop being so careful, that he wanted _everything_ , wanted it hot, hard, and rough, if John was amenable. He longed to be dominated, to give up all control. Oh god… he envisioned being thrown down on the bed, _John’s bed_ , his hard, soldier’s body, heavy and unrelenting, pushing him deep into the mattress, holding him down and spreading him open…

Without thinking, Sherlock grabbed John’s hand with both of his and pressed it against his clothed erection, moving the hand up and down slowly, allowing it to press against every inch of him over and over as his hips lifted to grind against it. It felt so good, and John’s arm was lax, allowing Sherlock to press and move him at will. After several charged, silent moments, John’s fingers started shifting, slightly gripping now as Sherlock continued. Sherlock was in a lustful haze, so turned on and focused on the exquisite feeling of John’s open palm hot against him that he forgot to even check John’s reaction, to see if he was even okay with this. He glanced over now, and John’s mouth was open and there was a blaze in his eyes as he breathed deeply, staring fixedly on his hand in Sherlock’s lap.

Sherlock closed his eyes tight and threw his head back against his seat. All he could think was how he wanted John touching him, making him come now. He forgot where they were, forgot the cab driver, forgot everything. He desired John so desperately, and he was done waiting. Sherlock barely registered John briefly speaking to the cabdriver, handing him something while scooting closer to Sherlock, but when he felt John’s hand inside his pants, his fingers curling around him possessively, he gasped and looked down to see that his trousers had been undone for easier access. _Oh… oh god. John was a dream come true_. Sherlock glanced over at him, and even in the darkened cab, he could see John’s chest heaving, could almost see his pulse race just under the skin of his throat.

“Here, come here,” John panted. He reached over and with one impressive heave, pulled Sherlock right into his lap, manoeuvring Sherlock’s slender legs so they fell on either side of his powerful thighs. Sherlock’s eyes widened and his breath hitched as he quickly grasped that John had also undone his own cargos and was just as exposed as he was. He stared down at John’s cock, and gulped. It was _huge_. Sherlock’s mouth watered instantly as realisation rushed through his veins like roaring rapids… _he was getting his very first look at John’s cock… he was in John’s lap… looking down at his beautiful cock_. And in the next moment, Sherlock felt the first touch of their cocks against each other, already slick and hot, and he jerked violently at the contact, his head falling against the crook of John’s shoulder in an attempt to smother the sob of ecstasy escaping his lips.

They sat there a moment in stillness, a calm before the storm. Sherlock attempted to speak, but it came out muffled and garbled even to his own ears. “Jo… John… _John_. Oh god… my… god…”

“Shhhh, there now. Shhh, I’ve got you.” John began rubbing Sherlock’s back with one hand and stroking his hair with the other. “I’ll take care of you. I know just what you need, relax—“ Sherlock’s deep groan interrupted, and John reached up and kissed his temple, smiled against his face and purred, “—and enjoy the ride.”

John’s breathlessness betrayed how affected he was, but Sherlock was shaking uncontrollably, breath coming out in quick pants against John’s neck, as he slid his arms around John, holding on for dear life as John started undulating his hips from under him. Sherlock couldn’t help but think of how strong John was, how powerful his lower body strength must be to so easily lift them both up and down in an erotic dance, the sexual moves as old as time. Yet this particular dance was new to Sherlock, and he was overcome. He could do nothing but remain sprawled helplessly on top of John’s lap, his body a dead weight no doubt. John grabbed Sherlock’s arse and pulled him even closer, making him whimper. John was well and truly rutting against him now, and the only sounds were his soft grunts and harsh breaths, mouths open against each other.

“You just couldn’t wait—ahh— until we got there—could you.” John’s voice rumbled softly as he reached down to capture the moisture oozing from their tips. His fingers lazily spread the precome over both of them, the light feather touches driving Sherlock to distraction. After they were both coated evenly, John finally grasped them firmly, giving long, slow pulls even as he continued moving up against Sherlock. “ _Mmm, yeah_. Not that I… _oh fuck_ … am complaining, mind you.” John gave a long drawn out groan, and leaned up to nibble on Sherlock’s ear, before taking the whole lobe into his mouth and sucking hard on it. Sherlock whimpered helplessly. He remained boneless in John’s arms, as John took complete control over the situation. John’s hips were continuously rising and falling, lifting Sherlock’s whole weight completely off the seat at times. The rocking, the incessant gliding and searing sensation was more than Sherlock could bear, and he knew it wouldn’t be long now.

John seemed to sense his approaching orgasm, because his movements became faster, harder. “I want you to come, sweet thing, all over yourself and… _and me_. Do you hear me? _God… god yeah_ … come for me love, would you do that? _Fuck._  Make a mess. I want you to. Do it. _Now._ ” The last word came out as a growl, and Sherlock keened loudly, shooting come all over his and John’s shirts, and even hitting his own chin. John immediately followed with a brief shout, spraying Sherlock’s neck and cheek.

They sat there quivering together through the aftershocks, until Sherlock glanced up and realised the taxi had stopped and was idling outside an apartment building. _Oh my god, how long have we been stopped… OH SHIT the taxi driver!_ He slowly became aware that there were actually three people in the cab breathing heavily. Sherlock froze in horror.

John chuckled, pulling Sherlock’s head down to lick inside his open mouth, closing his lips over him and kissing deeply. “Don’t worry,” John said a moment later, smiling mischievously into Sherlock’s eyes. “I gave the cabbie the tip of his life, so he won’t be turning us in for indecent exposure.” Again John laughed while leaning back and looking Sherlock up and down. “Though I’m sure he’ll remember us for the rest of his life. And who wouldn’t remember you. God, how did I get so lucky, hmm? Come now, let’s put you back together.” John licked Sherlock’s face and neck, cleaning him with his tongue and then sharing one more intimate kiss, allowing Sherlock to taste them both. It was salty and bitter, but Sherlock thought he hadn’t tasted anything more wonderful in his life.

Sherlock tried to button his trousers, but his fingers were still trembling and useless. John took over immediately, tucking them both back in and reaching over pull his coat back on. John leaned in to whisper hotly in his ear, “First things first… I need to give you a proper bath. Look how filthy you are.” Sherlock was speechless. He followed John out of the cab and took one, two steps when his knees gave way and he was suddenly wrapped once more in John’s arms.

“I see I’ll have my hands full with you.” John tried to help him stand before just reaching down and lifting him completely up, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

Sherlock huffed in embarrassment as the cab tore off down the street. “For god’s sake John, I can walk.”

John just continued towards the door. “I really don’t think so, Sherlock. Could you grab my keys for me?” Sherlock glared at John briefly, then reached into his pocket. Sherlock’s breath caught as he saw the hint of warmth in John’s eyes at the slide of his fingers, hot against his thigh. “Would you do the honours?” John’s voice was hoarse. Sherlock unlocked the door immediately, and John carried him down a long, dark hallway, passing several doors until finally stopping at one. Again, Sherlock unlocked the door, but John paused at the doorway until Sherlock looked at him questioningly. John’s eyes practically glowed.

“I never thought I’d be carrying someone, anyone, over my threshold,” John teased, but then his face grew solemn. “But, for what it’s worth, I’m glad it’s you. Can I... may I have you tonight?”

Sherlock’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and it was hard to speak. After swallowing with difficulty, he choked out, “My god… _yes_ John. _Please_ , take me… take all of me.”

An unreadable emotion flashed across John’s face, an intoxicating mix of awe, desire and something _else_. He pulled Sherlock down and kissed him passionately, _possessively_. Sherlock sensed a promise behind the slow glide of lips, tongues, and the wet sinful noises they made. Sherlock whined low in his throat, the desperate sound begging for everything John had to offer. Eventually, John pulled back and looked intently into Sherlock’s eyes, his voice reaching deep into Sherlock’s soul as he carried him through the door.

“As you wish.”

 

 


	4. The Flat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I want you to lose control with me. But, would you like to come back to my place first? I really do want to keep you all night." John smiled and winked flirtatiously. "I promise to give you your very own private lap dance…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 is by IamJohnLocked4life.

They entered the flat in darkness, John moving through the space by memory, fluid and graceful despite the six feet of lanky ballet dancer in his arms. Sherlock was grateful for the dark, still feeling a bit ridiculous that he had to be carried in like a swooning maid. Yet if he was to be honest with himself — and Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not brutally honest in his assessments — a small, traitorous part of him thrilled at the idea of being literally swept off his feet by this man. Good god, but he had become a romantic sop! How he had gone from being scornful of sentiment and eschewing carnal desires to this quivering mass of raw emotions and burning need in one night was beyond all reason, but John Watson defied logic. Rationality didn’t stand a chance when confronted with his primal, sensuous power. Sherlock’s body responded, and everything else fell away, irrelevant. Only John remained. The relief at this thought swept through him in a wave, and he relaxed back into John’s strong embrace.

John pivoted, his boots squealing softly on lino, and Sherlock felt a solid plane slide under his bum as John gently deposited him on the hard surface. Sherlock was momentarily bereft as John’s arm left the crook of his knees, but then there was the snick of a switch and a fluorescent bulb flickered to life above their heads, flooding the room with stark bright light. Sherlock clenched his eyes instinctively against the blinding white, and a warm hand came to rest on his cheek. He slowly blinked his eyes open, the fuzzy shape of John’s smiling face coming into focus.

“Hey.” John’s voice was liquid honey in his ears, smooth and sweet and comforting. The bright fluorescent fixture was mostly blocked by his beautiful tanned face, and the light that flowed around him illuminated his golden hair. He was glowing around the edges with pale brilliance, haloed in white. It was as close to a religious experience as Sherlock had ever had, and it shook his very foundations. His entire reality threatened to crumble, come apart at the seams, seep out into the light streaming behind John’s head. Sherlock couldn’t quite bring himself to care.

“Okay?”

Sherlock blinked again, stupidly. Usually he was so full of words, thoughts spinning through his head and cluttering his mind and overlaying the world in unending data until the deductions tumbled out of his mouth unbidden. In the hallowed aura of John Watson, the world fell mute, stunned into silence by his overwhelming presence. It was… peaceful.

“Sherlock? Is everything alright?” Sherlock licked his lips as he struggled to formulate a response, but his mind was still blank. John’s eyes had gone soft with concern, but John’s thumb was stroking gently along his cheekbone and Sherlock found it impossible to focus on anything else. John’s face was so close Sherlock could feel hot breath upon his lips, and he couldn’t help himself from licking them again. John’s lovely brow crinkled with worry, and Sherlock simultaneously wanted to smooth the lines away and memorise every single one.

“I meant what I said before, we don’t have to do anything. I don’t have any expectations, I just… I wanted to spend more time with you. Really, it’s okay, we can just sit and talk and—” Sherlock’s mouth was on John’s before he realised what he was doing, moving on instinct. There was no conscious decision on his part, he just needed to stop John from talking, abort that train of faulty conclusions and set him back on the right track. The fact that he was unable to form coherent sentences was immaterial. John had shown him how to speak with his body, and Sherlock applied his newfound knowledge with fervor.

John’s lips yielded under his, at first slack in surprise, then curving up into a smile. Sherlock felt a thrill of triumph that he was doing this, that he was acting on impulse and John was responding and reading his thoughts on his lips, but he felt an even greater thrill when John took control of the kiss. The moment the power shifted was as sudden and stark as the light that sprang from the flick of a switch. John’s tongue was probing his mouth and John’s hand was fisting his hair and John’s hips were pressed tight against his own. It was a glorious invasion, and Sherlock melted into submission. _Yes, take me John._

John’s arm wrapped possessively around Sherlock’s waist, the other hand still tugging on curls, and Sherlock moaned at the twin sensations of fingertips digging into scalp and hip. He was making high-pitched, desperate noises in the back of his throat, sounds he surely would have been embarrassed by, had he the presence of mind to notice. When his needy plea turned into a whine, John pulled back, struggling to regain his breath.

“Sorry, sorry,” he panted, and loosened his grip. “Got a bit carried away.” He smoothed his hand over Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock wanted to tell him, _No John, I liked that, more like that now!_ — but John was looking at him with something very like affection and Sherlock found he couldn’t speak. He never wanted John to stop looking at him that way. John’s face shone with this nameless emotion _(Sherlock couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t dare hope)_ , brimming over so brightly that Sherlock felt himself glow in response. John’s lips parted in an awed smile.

“God, you are so beautiful, Sherlock. I can’t help myself.” Sherlock flushed under the praise, and looked away. Suddenly the intensity of meeting that luminous gaze was too much for him, overwhelming. Sherlock had never dreamt that anyone could look at him like that, like something bright and special. Not just admired for technical skill as a danseur, valued only for his ability to perform, but _wanted_. _Desired_.

John cleared his throat. “Right. Sorry, I’m a rubbish host. Would you like some tea?” He turned out of Sherlock’s arms, and Sherlock, blinking from the sudden loss of John’s touch, finally took in his surroundings. He was on the countertop in John’s kitchen _(obvious)_ , a small but tidy space adjacent to a living area, only partially lit from the ambient fluorescent light, though Sherlock could make out a small brown sofa _(two seater — “love seat”? — no, worn leather, masculine design, marketed to bachelors and divorcés)_ and a coffee table _(stained maple, second-hand, but solid wood, pulp novel on top, likely a detective thriller from the cover)_. Across from Sherlock’s perch on the counter _(tiled, white, chip on the tile under his left hand that he kept worrying at with his thumb)_ sat a modest square table _(also maple but with a lighter stain)_ , flanked by two chairs _(matching set, but purchased separately from the table)_.

John was busying himself with an electric kettle at the sink. “Sherlock, I… I want you to know, I don’t have company over much. I know I said it earlier, and I’m not sure why but it seems important that you know…” He gave a little shrug. “I don’t want you to think I’m bringing people back to my flat every night. It’s not like that.”

“Obviously.” Sherlock didn’t mean for it to come out as haughtily as it did _(force of habit, stupid, stupid!)_ but John just raised his eyebrows, pursing his lips to keep from smiling.

“Oh, is it now?” His tone was playful, and Sherlock relaxed fractionally. “How’s that then?” It wasn’t an accusation or a demand, just friendly curiosity. Sherlock took a deep breath.

“You have a set of two mugs — well, you have a set of two of everything — but they were clean and in the cupboard, while both your plates are in the sink, along with your RAMC mug. Remnants of food confirm different meals; hence breakfast and lunch, though knowing your nighttime work schedule, more like brunch and supper. So, no shared meals, and rather than using your matching mug set, you prefer your army mug and just keep rinsing and refilling. No evidence of anyone else in the flat for the past 24 hours. Then there’s the seating—” he gestured to the kitchen chairs. “The one on the right has definite signs of wear — scuffed legs, reduced gloss, tiny bit of wood splintering on the front edge of the seat where the finish has rubbed off — not to mention the light scratches on the floor under the chair from frequent shifting and scraping. Clearly, that’s where you usually sit at the table, when you choose to sit at all, though I suspect you finish more meals over the sink than you’d like to admit. In contrast, the other chair looks brand-new, hardly used at all.” He inclined his head towards the darkened living room. “Your sofa tells a similar story. One cushion is deeply indented — you lean on your right arm against that armrest, keeping your dominant hand free for drinks or books — the leather is worn on that side and not the other. The placement of your paperback, not to mention the watermarks on the table, most likely from beer bottles, are all on the same side. You’ve had the occasional guest, but nothing to indicate a pattern of frequent visitors.”

Sherlock stopped abruptly, all of a sudden acutely aware of John staring at him, wide-eyed. _Oh god. He was doing it again. Idiot!_ Sherlock dropped his gaze to his hands, overcome with the urge to hide, to sink down, through the counter and floor, down, down, deep into the earth.

“That… was…” Sherlock scrunched his shoulders to his ears, as if anticipating a blow. “…amazing!” Sherlock’s eyes shot to John’s in utter disbelief. John was shaking his head slowly, his warm, open face full of… awe? Could that be?

“Truly incredible.” John was beaming at him with such wonder that Sherlock had to look away again.

“That’s not what people usually say.” _How had his voice gotten so small?_

“What do they usually say?”

“Piss off, pretty boy.”

John giggled. “Well, I can’t argue with the last bit, but I might have to slug anyone who says any of that to you in my presence.” He was still grinning up at Sherlock, but steel ran through those last words, shooting a hot bolt of want through Sherlock’s entire body. Sherlock found himself hoping he would someday get the chance to see John defend his honour, and immediately blushed at the desire. Ridiculous. Chauvinistic. Undeniably arousing. _John Watson, what have you done to me?_

“Brilliant and beautiful, how did I get so lucky?” John ran his fingertips along Sherlock’s cheek, thumb brushing his lip, before turning back to beverage preparations. The water was nearly boiling and the mugs were set out with spoons. As he reached up for the tea _(PG Tips, Earl Grey; he also drank English Breakfast and Black, just not this late at night)_ , the hem of his coat lifted with the stretch, revealing the lush swell of his arse, resplendent in camouflage. The material looked incongruously rough over the soft curves, and Sherlock was overtaken by a pressing desire; he needed to know precisely how it would feel under his hands.

“J-John…”  

John twisted to look over his shoulder, rucking his shirt up higher — and was that a flash of red at the edge of his waistband? Sherlock’s mouth watered at the memory of John clad in nothing more than a triangle of crimson silk. John’s eyes followed Sherlock’s gaze, then flicked back to Sherlock with a knowing smirk.

“I see how it is. Don’t think I’ve forgotten… I know how it felt to have your eyes on me. I saw the way you stared.” John had turned back to Sherlock, tea abandoned on the shelf, and now he was leaning back against the counter opposite Sherlock, a dangerous glint in his eye. “I think you’re thirsty for a lot more than tea.” Sherlock swallowed and nodded. John cocked his hips slightly, his pelvis thrust forward just this side of lewd. “Don’t worry, I’ve got what you need.” He stood and slipped his coat and shirt from his shoulders, hanging them on the back of a kitchen chair —  _his chair_  — which he slid into the centre of the small kitchenette.

“Sit.” Sherlock responded instantly to the firm command, leaping to his feet before he consciously made the decision to obey. His body seemed attuned to John’s voice, primed and ready for the next order. He quickly took the single stride to reach the chair and turned to sit, but a gruff “Wait!” halted him at once. He hovered, arse inches from the seat, frozen in place.

“Wait.” The tone was softer, and much closer. Hands smoothed up his spine, spread over his shoulder blades, curved around his neck. Sherlock held his breath, unsure whether he was even allowed that subtle movement, certain that his body would shake apart if given the chance. Fingertips skimmed down the column of his throat, tucked under the high collar of his coat, and gently slid the heavy wool from his shoulders.

“It’s almost a pity to take this off,” John murmured behind him. “You look so graceful swirling around my kitchen… your lean silhouette made all the more stunning with that dramatic sweep of black fabric following your every move… like a dark angel.” There was reverence in his voice, and a hint of sadness that made Sherlock’s heart ache.

“But I think you’ll be more comfortable this way,” John continued, playful and light, and Sherlock wondered if he had only imagined those deeper emotions mere seconds ago. Maybe he just wanted this to be more than it was —  _yes, he definitely wanted more, more than a fling, more than a one-night stand, more John_  — but he shouldn’t let himself hope for more than just this. This was already more than Sherlock had ever dreamt of having, and he resolved himself to be grateful for every second he was allowed to stay in John’s presence. He couldn’t let himself get swept up in flowery words or romantic notions, no matter how tempting it may be. John was an experienced lover; that much was clear. He was making Sherlock feel special, taking care of him, teaching him the ways of his body and how it might move with another, and Sherlock would take these lessons, every moment of this night, and cherish them for the rest of his life.

“You can sit now.” John had carefully folded his greatcoat on the countertop, and was now appraising him with wry amusement. Sherlock lowered himself to the chair and perched on the edge, spine ramrod-straight and buzzing with anticipation. He was ready for whatever John would give him, everything, _anything_. He just wanted more, now or sooner, _oh please, John, NOW!_

“Relax, Sherlock. You look like you’re going to break under the strain of sitting up so proper and still. Here, let me…” John moved to stand behind him again and laid his hands on his shoulders, gently pulling Sherlock back into the chair. His thumbs traced the lines of his trapezius, light at first and then growing in pressure, stroking deeper with each successive pass. “God, you’re so tense. Try to lean back into my touch.” Sherlock was thrumming with energy, hyper-aware of John’s powerful presence at his back, towering over him now with this reversal of heights, but he wanted to do as John said, wanted to yield to him _(only him)_. Slowly, Sherlock let his shoulders drop and his spine curve, and he closed his eyes, focussing on John’s penetrating touch. God, it felt _good_. Better than good. He hadn’t realised something so simple could have such a profound effect, but then he was learning quite a lot about his body’s response tonight.

Sherlock had never understood the appeal of massage before; the two occasions when he had been coerced into receiving “therapeutic” treatment due to strain had been disastrous, the second ending in a screaming match with the practitioner that left him hoarse and her in tears. But this, _this_ , this was light years away, this was a whole other universe of tactile sensation, thanks to John.

 _John_. John was the key factor, the sole requirement for pleasure. Was there anything he couldn’t do? Any touch that wouldn’t result in utter bliss? At the moment, Sherlock couldn’t think of any, couldn’t think of anything at all but the feel of John’s strong, capable hands working the muscles of his back, neck, and shoulders into submission.

“That’s it,” John cooed in his ear. “Let it all go.” The soothing words and accompanying vibrations slid down his spine, easing away any lingering tension, and Sherlock found himself melting, dissolving, completely at peace. His head fell back and his legs splayed wide and everything felt light and loose and perfect. John’s hands moved over his collarbones, stroking down his chest, and Sherlock found himself rubbing his head against the chairback, cheek brushing John’s camo shirt, nuzzling into the smell of _John_.

“Good, Sherlock. That’s good. Take a deep breath for me.” Sherlock inhaled deeply, John’s musky flavour overwhelming his senses just as John’s hands crept down to stroke his flanks, and Sherlock released his breath with a low moan. Even to his own ears it sounded unbearably obscene, and he flushed to think how it must sound to John. “Mmm… very good.” The light tone was gone; John’s tenor had dropped to something rough and dark. “I think you’re ready.”

John stepped back, but Sherlock stayed slumped in the chair, unable to so much as turn his head. There was a click behind him and music filled the air. It wasn’t the electrobeat of the club, but something smooth and sultry, with a hint of swing. Sexy and classy and entirely John.

Sherlock lazily blinked his eyes open and focussed on John, who was standing before him, a wicked grin on his lips.

“I believe I owe you a dance.” He bent forward and methodically unlaced his boots, eyes fixed on Sherlock, staring up at him through golden lashes. The heat in his gaze sparked visceral memories, flashes from the club, and Sherlock was instantly awake. John stepped out of his boots and kicked them aside without ceremony. This was not about showmanship or skill; John was getting down to business, stripping with no-nonsense, brass tacks efficiency. The gloves were coming off. He pulled his vest over his head, never breaking the fiery connection of his intense gaze. His hands fell to his belt, unbuckling with the same matter-of-fact precision, entirely focussed on Sherlock. This time, there was no teasing, no toying, as his fingers undid the flies. There was only the burning passion in his eyes, a silent challenge not to look away, even as he revealed his gorgeous body. Sherlock struggled to hold his gaze, the tempting expanse of tanned muscles vying for his attention like a siren’s call. He couldn’t help but notice the splash of red in his periphery, a beacon of sin beckoning his eyes to follow. John strode towards him, glowing radiant as a golden god, and Sherlock shuddered in response.

“Have you ever had a lap dance before, Sherlock?” His voice was a low purr, soft but dangerous. Mutely, Sherlock shook his head. “Well, there are rules.” John placed his hands on the chairback, on either side of Sherlock’s head, and leaned over him, spearing him with his gaze. “The first rule is, you sit in the chair, and stay seated, while I dance for you. Can you do that, Sherlock? Can you be a good boy for me and sit and stay?” There was a thread of amusement in his rough command that, coming from anyone else, Sherlock would have found unbearably patronising. From John’s lips, it was a wisp of warm affection amidst steel that made Sherlock eager to obey. He wanted desperately for John to be pleased with him, to be praised for his good behaviour, to be John’s good boy. He nodded as earnestly as he could manage, burning under John’s close scrutiny.

“Hm… we’ll see. The second rule is, I can touch you, but you are not allowed to touch me.” Sherlock swallowed. That would be a lot more difficult than staying in the chair. He gripped his thighs and nodded. “I’m serious, Sherlock,” John said sharply. “ _No touching_. Do you understand?” Sherlock nodded again, more vehemently. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Y-yes, John. No touching.” Sherlock was trembling, whether from arousal or fear of what John would do if he broke his word, he was unsure.

“That’s right. That’s the most important rule in lap dances. _Don’t_ forget it.” Sherlock shook his head; he wouldn’t forget, he wouldn’t. “And the third rule is…” John leaned in close, his lips at Sherlock’s ear. “You are _not_ allowed to come until I say so.” A shiver ran down Sherlock’s spine at the darkly whispered words, and their connotation. _What would he be doing to Sherlock, that John thought he may come from his dance alone?_ Yes, in the club he had been aroused by John’s dancing, at times almost painfully so, but he had never felt close to losing control, to releasing unbidden in his trousers. The very thought of it was mortifying.

John nipped at his ear to get his attention. “Did you hear me, Sherlock?” he growled. “Not. Until. I. Say.” Each word was punctuated with a bite, and Sherlock panted with every shot of delicious pain. _“Understand?”_

“Yessir!” The words rushed out in a breathy exhale, bypassing his brain and responding directly to the imperious demand. John chuckled in his ear.

“Mmm… good. Then we can begin.” He let his hands fall to Sherlock’s shoulders, trailed his fingers down Sherlock’s arms to his thighs. He was standing in the V of Sherlock’s legs, still spread open from the relaxation of the massage. He stroked his hands down the outside of Sherlock’s hips to grip the sides of the seat, and slid his feet back behind him, so he was stretched out in a straight, taut line, chest suspended over Sherlock’s lap. Keeping his eyes locked on Sherlock’s, he _slowly_ lowered himself down in an erotic approximation of a pushup. With a grin, he dipped his head, his chin brushing the front of Sherlock’s trousers, and just like that, Sherlock was hard again. John rocked back on the balls of his feet, sinking down between Sherlock’s thighs, and the sight of John’s head down _there_ flooded Sherlock’s brain with images of John on his knees in the alley, sense-memories of his beautiful mouth licking, sucking, swallowing around him. _Fuck_. His cock pulsed in sympathy and strained against its cloth trappings.

John tensed his muscles and started to press himself up again, biceps bulging with the controlled effort. As he reached Sherlock’s groin, he ran his nose up the seam of Sherlock’s flies, tracing the zip and breathing hot moist air against the fabric. Sherlock’s prick jumped, desperate to reach John’s mouth but bumping against his nose in its eagerness. John made an amused noise and opened his lips around the bulge, providing just enough teasing pressure to make Sherlock gasp and jerk his hips, before continuing his ascent.

“Remember to stay in the chair.” He was watching Sherlock with obvious delight, but his tone promised consequences if his warning went unheeded. Sherlock managed another squeaky, “Yes sir,” and John nodded his approval. He was on eye-level with Sherlock again, arms rigidly extended to support his weight, and he gave a sudden tug and the chair lurched forward, eliciting a surprised yelp from its occupant. With a quick slide of feet, John’s legs parted in a wide splits, first straddling Sherlock’s thighs, then balanced on them as his toes lifted off the floor. He was still gripping the chair at Sherlock’s hips, putting his face millimetres from Sherlock’s, breath coming in hot puffs across his lips. He started to pulse his quads to the sultry beat of the music, each bounce up and down spreading him wider until his feet were parallel with his hips. The erotic undulations rocked his hips towards Sherlock, miming a wholly different act, and Sherlock’s nails dug into his thighs with the effort not to thrust at John in response. _Sit in the chair_ , he ordered himself, though the voice in his head had taken on a distinctly military cadence.

John lowered his feet back to the floor, and continued to squeeze his legs together, forcing Sherlock’s to close between the vise of hot muscle as he rose to standing. He loomed over Sherlock, straddling his knees, which now vibrated against each other with anticipation. Strong hands stroked glistening tanned skin, skimming over the delicate silk strings that clung to his hips before continuing their journey up that lean, cut torso. It was reminiscent of his moves at the club, though the extreme proximity, the burning brand of John’s legs pressed tight against Sherlock’s, made the former experience feel like a pale shadow of this. It was as though Sherlock’s memories of the night’s earlier dance had been filmed in soft focus, a mirage viewed through a rose-coloured lens. Now, in the dazzling brilliance of John’s kitchen, everything was in high-def 3D, visceral and demanding and _real_. He could feel the flex of John’s thighs and hear the rasp of John’s breath and could almost _taste_ the beads of sweat forming across the abdominals that rippled mere inches from his face.

Hypnotised, Sherlock swayed forward, following the swirl of fingers with his eyes, mouth falling open to chase their path with his tongue. Above him, John made a tsking noise, and a firm hand pressed against his chest, forcing him back against the hard wooden chair. The other trailed up his neck, tipping his chin to meet John’s steady gaze.

“ _No touching_ , Sherlock. That includes any… appendages.” John licked his lips, deliberately, almost cruelly, but Sherlock was in no position to argue.

“S-sorry John. I understand.”

“Good boy.” John slid his hand along Sherlock’s jaw, up his cheek, and back into his curls, dragging nails across his scalp as he smoothed his hair. Sherlock let out a needy whimper, and John gave a delicious little pull before releasing him again.

Sherlock’s head was buzzing, every nerve electrified, every cell singing _John, John, John_ , as the man himself stood over him, surrounding him, and moved his body in sinuous paths that came tantalisingly close to touching Sherlock, but kept a breath of space between. His skin was close enough for Sherlock to feel the heat of it, a buffer of hot air that vibrated with potential. Sherlock looked up with wide hungry eyes, silently pleading. _Touch me, John, take me, I need you, oh god, how I need you._

In reply, John grinned and backed off, creating more unbearable distance as he shimmied away. Sherlock whined, not caring how pathetic he sounded, and squirmed in his seat. John rolled his shoulders in counterpoint to his hips, slinking backwards, ever farther from Sherlock’s lap until he was a full foot away. He spun on his toes, and Sherlock nearly forgot his distress as he was given full view of John’s backside, bare and beautiful. _Christ_ , it was even more stunning up close, exposed for Sherlock’s eyes only, with all the time in the world to admire those powerful shoulders, tapered waist, and perfect slope of arse as it curved to meet sculpted thighs. He was certain those proportions conformed to the golden mean, some ideal ratio of breadth to width to length, but his brain was too overwhelmed with raw sensory data to overlay the figure before him with numbers and graphs. _Later_ … yes, later he would review, analyse, calculate, and fully marvel at the impossible harmony in front of him. For now, he could only stare, slack-jawed and wanting, and pray it would never end.

John threw his head back, arched his spine, and bent forward, his back curving even deeper as he lowered his chest towards the floor. When he was fully hinged at the waist, hands planted on the lino, he slid his feet back, which had the pleasant side effect of thrusting his arse towards Sherlock.

Sherlock’s chest heaved as he struggled for breath, unable to temper the frantic pounding of blood in his veins. Blood that all seemed to be rushing down to one already over-aching and under-attended organ. He wasn’t sure what was worse, the round flexing buttocks that pulsed to the beat, or the red-clad cock and bollocks that rocked back and forth, inches from his own throbbing prick. John was bobbing and weaving, his torso undulating with the heady beat as his fingers crept nearer, until he finally swept upward in a fluid arc, his hands coming over his head to rest behind him, wrapped around Sherlock’s neck.

His hold pulled Sherlock forward, forcing Sherlock’s face to his back, and Sherlock’s nose brushed against John’s vertebrae. Sweat and scent collided, overpowering his senses with _John_. His whole world was this man, and he trembled under the force of his desire for more. With a dirty groan, John lowered himself into Sherlock’s lap, grinding against him with unrestrained need. _Fuck_. John’s arse was pressed against his cock and John’s fingers were digging into his scalp and John’s body was writhing in his grip.

 _“Sherlock!”_ The voice was harsh, painfully so, and Sherlock had to clench his jaw and suck air through his nose to ground himself back to reality. With horror, he realised his hands had grabbed John by the hips and was rhythmically pulling him down to meet his urgent erection. Instantly, he released his hold, but he knew it was too late.

John unwound himself from Sherlock’s lap and stood, slowly turning to face him with controlled patience that made Sherlock freeze in his chair. _What had he done?_ He hadn’t meant to touch John, he was trying to behave, trying so hard to be good, but his hands apparently had a mind of their own. Sherlock could feel the flush of shame rising to his cheeks, and he hung his head, unable to meet John’s disapproving glare.

“You had three simple rules to follow. Do you remember them?”

Sherlock nodded. Mercifully, John did not demand a verbal response.

“And what are they?”

 _Shit_. Sherlock swallowed, him mouth suddenly parched.

“C’mon, you’re quite clever. I’m sure you remember.”

“S-stay in the chair.”

“That’s right.” John was smiling, but his eyes glinted like sharp gems. “And the second?”

Sherlock could feel himself blush a deeper shade of scarlet, embarrassment and arousal flooding his face like molten lava. He burned under John’s blazing stare, and his cock gave a surprising jump.

“N-n-no t-touching.” His fingers twitched, clenching his thighs automatically.

John stalked back into his space, straddling his knees once more, and Sherlock quickly slid his hands down around the seat of the chair, gripping it as if it were a life raft, and concentrated on not jerking his hips off the chair. Angry John was _glorious_. And practically naked. _Oh god help_.

John reached out, dragged a hand from Sherlock’s throat down… down over skittering pulse and exposed collarbones… down heaving chest and tense stomach… down to wrap around his jutting prick and then sink down even further, giving him one, firm pump. Sherlock shook like a leaf in a hurricane, holding onto the chair for dear life. Still holding him tight at the base, John leaned forward, lips brushing Sherlock’s ear.

“Very good. No touching.” He gave Sherlock another long, torturous stroke, and Sherlock thrashed back and forth, panting and keening. John brought his other hand up to keep Sherlock’s chin in place and whispered hotly in his ear, “And the third rule, Sherlock?”

“I c-c-can’t… I c-can’t c-c-co-co…” His stutter was as bad as it had ever been, and Sherlock Holmes didn’t stutter. Sherlock Holmes was bright and cutting and quick on his feet. For a terrifying moment he thought his mouth might be broken, but John’s breath at his neck made him redouble his efforts. “I c-can’t c-c-come before you s-s-s-sthay.” That absolutely _wasn’t_ a lisp. Sherlock was certain he would actually die of mortification, right then and there, but then John’s tongue was on his ear and all thoughts ceased.

He writhed and jerked and squealed, plaintive yearning sounds that escaped his throat, yet John relentlessly explored the shell, the lobe, licking the perimeter before swirling in. Sherlock’s hands flew to John’s hips, and just as quickly dropped them, falling completely still. John just laughed, low and sweet in his ear.

“Oh, I have just the thing for naughty boys who can’t keep their hands to themselves.” He lifted Sherlock’s chin, exposing the long stretch of pale that his fingers traced, skating along corded muscle and bobbing Adam’s apple, dipping in between prominent collarbones. His other hand traversed up Sherlock’s body, meeting the first at the deep V of plum in the centre of his chest. John paused, fingertips pressed gently to Sherlock’s sternum as though feeling his heartbeat, then started unbuttoning Sherlock’s dress shirt. For once, John’s eyes weren’t on his own, and Sherlock watched him watching the ever-growing swath of skin laid bare by his hands. John appeared transfixed, utterly rapt in the slow reveal, and Sherlock marvelled that John’s attention could be so absorbed… by _him_.

When John reached the bottom, he ran his hands back up Sherlock’s chest, thumbs rubbing over tightening nipples until they stood at full attention. He took a step closer, knees squeezing Sherlock’s hips and hands wrapping over Sherlock’s shoulders to slide down his back. He leant over Sherlock’s head, putting that sinful triangle of silk just in front of Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock tried very hard not to breathe, for fear of being unable to control what his mouth would do next. John grabbed Sherlock’s shirttail, and yanked the hem up over the chair, pressing the khaki-covered chairback flush against Sherlock’s skin. He pushed the shirt from Sherlock’s shoulders, roughly shucking it down his arms to bunch at his wrists.

Sherlock was bound, the chair sandwiched between shirt and skin, arms pinned to the sides. He had never been harder in his life.

John eased back, dropping his hips down to hover over Sherlock’s lap, falling into his languid gyrations again, as if nothing earth-shattering had just happened.

“Mmmm, that’s better, isn’t it?”

Sherlock wasn’t sure if the sound he made was a moan or a sob, but in response John ground down on his cock, so Sherlock decided it must be acceptable, and made it again. He was rewarded with one more thrust, and then John was rocking back on Sherlock’s thighs, draping himself over Sherlock’s knees. He was spread across Sherlock’s lap, acres of golden skin stretched out like a gift, unwrapped just for Sherlock, but forbidden to touch. John reached his arms over his head, completing the backward bow of his body. His hands found Sherlock’s ankles and clamped them tightly to the chair legs. His feet hooked over the top of the chair, knees framing Sherlock’s head. Sherlock was in a cage of John’s body, and he never wanted to be released.

John pressed his feet into the wood at Sherlock’s back and lifted his hips and suddenly John’s silk-covered cock was _right there_ again, bobbing inches from Sherlock’s face. Sherlock wriggled in his bonds, and relished the rough canvas that abraded his bare back, the pull on his wrists of his own cuffs, the unyielding hold of John’s hands that forced his legs stay in place. There was no escape, no relief from this sensual assault, and the stimulation of this much John and not enough contact nearly tore him apart.

As if sensing his fraying sanity, John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s ankles, and tilted his groin closer to Sherlock’s face. His cock strained against the flimsy red fabric that tried to contain it, and with a roll of his hips, he stroked its throbbing length over Sherlock’s trembling lips.

“ _Please, John_.” A shaky plea against silk. Barely a whisper, but John took pity, and dropped back to Sherlock’s lap. A wash of gratitude swept through Sherlock’s body, chasing the pleasure that pulsed out from where his clothed erection met hot skin. He was already too close, too wound up, and his hands clutched at empty air, grasping for some semblance of control. _Not until John says_.

The grip at his ankles slackened, fingertips dragging up his calves, and John furled up to sitting, one vertebra at a time, every muscle in his stomach taut and twitching. His hands rested behind him on Sherlock’s knees, and he started to circle his hips, each gyration caressing Sherlock’s cock and gliding his own erection over Sherlock’s abdomen in turn. Sweat prickled at Sherlock’s skin, at his hairline, down his neck, across his chest, the twin forces of overarousal and suppressed orgasm at war throughout his shuddering body.

John continued moving to the smooth rhythm of the music, sliding his hands up Sherlock’s thighs, then up his own stomach, chest, neck. It was a dance not unlike the one Sherlock had imagined while watching John on stage — here, in his flat, giving himself over to the moment, losing himself in the music — except this was not for John’s solitary pleasure, but for Sherlock’s, which was even better.

 _No_ , he corrected, watching John stroke and sway, it was for _both_ their pleasures. John gave and took satisfaction in equal measure, revelling in his own arousal as fully as he did drawing it out of Sherlock. Sherlock gaped, awestruck, at the incredible man who had single-handedly turned his world upside-down in a matter of hours. He felt an epiphany break across his mind like the sun emerging from clouds, shedding light and warmth. _My pleasure is his pleasure, and his pleasure is mine_.

It was a revelation.

He had always considered sex a rather selfish act, the pursuit of personal gratification to satisfy the base needs of the flesh, a partner merely a means to an end. Certainly, his limited experience with pornography and self-stimulation had only cemented that belief. He had no idea that giving and receiving pleasure could be synonymous, interchangeable. He didn’t know that people could feel this way, that _he_ could feel this way, about another person.

It wasn’t selfish and it wasn’t selfless; it was symbiosis, and for the first time in his life, Sherlock felt in complete balance with the world. Like he fit, a part of it, rather than apart from it.

John was working in gentle counterpoint above him, building their joint pleasure with increased pressure, rocking against him in a duet of hips and sweat and breath. Though Sherlock was bound to the chair and John free to touch, they were sharing this dance, moving in perfect harmony. John leaned forward to lick his neck, and Sherlock threw back his head in response, exposing his throat for John’s fervent tongue. He pulled against his cloth restraints, the rough tension tethering him to the reality of the moment, and John’s hands found his straining arm muscles, their steady grip further anchoring him in place. John dipped his hips and Sherlock arched to meet him and their erections pressed together in a symphony of pure bliss.

“J-J-John! _Please_ , John, I’m going to… I _need_ to—”

“Shh, I know love, I know.” John lifted a hand to stroke Sherlock’s hair, gentle and soothing, the other still firm on his bicep, grounding him. “You’ve been so good, waiting for me. I know it hasn’t been easy.” Sherlock whimpered in agreement. “You just look so beautiful, tied to my kitchen chair, I don’t ever want to let you go.” _No, John, never_. “You’ll have to forgive me for being a bit… hard on you.” John punctuated his words with a roll of his hips, sending sparks shooting across Sherlock’s vision. Sherlock screwed his eyes shut against the sudden onslaught of sensation.

“I c-c-can’t, John, please, I c-can’t—” He shook his head back and forth, unable to stop the first telltale pulses at the base of his spine. He bit his lip in desperation, trying with all his might to resist the tightening of his balls, the unstoppable pressure, the overwhelming tide pushing him over the brink. John’s hand fisted in his hair, holding him still, and he growled, low and deep, “Come for me, Sherlock, _right now_.”

The explosion that followed was like nothing Sherlock had experienced. John’s voice was the trigger, his gruff command setting fire to a chain reaction of searing pleasure that tore through his body, relentless and consuming. Every shock of ecstasy was heightened by the chafing at his wrists, the fingernails piercing his arm, the sharp tugs to his hair that left his scalp tingling. It felt as though his wires were crossed and then cut loose; indistinguishable spasms of pleasure and pain swept through him in an unending cycle of exquisite tension and utter surrender.

When the tremors subsided at last, little shakes of residual bliss and aching release, and he felt his molecules coalesce back to solid form again, he blearily opened his eyes, amazed to find the world still there. John was looking down at him with undisguised affection, joy radiant across his face.

“You are unbelievable.” His fingers were soft in Sherlock’s hair, tender and almost protective. “I keep waiting to wake up. You can’t possibly be real.” His other hand stroked up Sherlock’s arm, over his shoulder, down his chest. “Except I could never dream up something so perfect… someone like you.” He paused, hand over Sherlock’s heart. “There’s no one like you.”

Sherlock swallowed, emotion rising in his chest, thick and heavy on the tail of his devastating climax. It was too much, and he couldn’t keep the tears from clouding his vision. Sensing his distress, John — merciful, kind, loving John — again took the reins, bringing Sherlock out of his head with a hand to Sherlock’s trousers.

“I’m afraid these are ruined,” he remarked lightly, touching the wet spot at their front. Sherlock hadn’t even noticed, but now he could feel the uncomfortably cooling stickiness make itself known between his legs. “Come on, let’s get you out of these dirty things and cleaned up. You…” he trailed a damp finger up Sherlock’s sweat-slicked chest, “are in desperate need of a shower.”

 


	5. The Shower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come on, let’s get you out of these dirty things and cleaned up. You…” he trailed a damp finger up Sherlock’s sweat-slicked chest, “are in desperate need of a shower.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5 is by IamJohnLocked4life.

Sherlock was a limp mess of loose limbs and sweaty curls. His vision was a bit hazy, his mind blessedly quiet. John crouched beside him, carefully unbuttoning his cuffs. As he slipped Sherlock’s wrists from their makeshift restraints, he stroked them gently, and laid a soft kiss on the tender skin just below each palm.

“I hope you’re not too badly hurt. I… sometimes I can get, uh… caught up in the moment.” John sounded remorseful, a bit ashamed. He was clearly worried that he had crossed some sort of line. Sherlock had to correct this misapprehension right away.

“No, it’s fine. More than fine. I… I liked it.” Sherlock swallowed, feeling more vulnerable than he could ever remember, but he couldn’t let John think he didn’t want this. He wanted it and so much more, things he didn’t know he could want before tonight. “I like it when you… take charge.” He could feel his blush rising again, but he knew he had to be brave, for John.

“Well.” John sounded somewhat mollified, though perhaps not fully convinced. “That’s good. You just let me know what you like, okay?”

“Yes, John.” He sagged back against the chair, rubbing against John’s canvas shirt. He felt as though he could stay here forever, but John had other plans.

“Right, let’s get you cleaned up.” He helped Sherlock to his feet, sliding an arm around his waist and propping Sherlock up against his shoulder. Sherlock draped himself over John’s sturdy frame and let himself be led through the darkened flat. They passed a closed door _(John’s bedroom!)_ and Sherlock was so overcome with burning curiosity that he considered derailing their mission for a glimpse inside, a chance to see the room where John slept. But the idea barely had a chance to crystallise in his mind before they were through the other door in the narrow hallway. The small loo was lit with antique fixtures, which gave the room a cosy glow, almost relaxing in contrast to the bright white of the kitchen. John leant him against the sink, licking a long stripe down his neck.

“Mmm… so dirty.”

Sherlock trembled. _Christ_ , how could so few words could have such an effect? He knew it wasn’t the words, really, but the speaker, the sound of those words in that mouth. For the first time in his life, Sherlock _wanted_ to be dirty, to be absolutely filthy, and the thought filled him with dark desire. Images flashed through his head, so fleeting he no chance to process — him on his knees, covered in John’s ejaculate — his hair matted with sweat, John fisting it as he forced his cock between his lips — his pale skin speckled with bruises, arse glowing red as John smacked him again and again over his lap. He suddenly wanted so many things — things he could hardly admit to himself, let alone John — that he clenched his fists and closed his eyes, completely overwhelmed.

He heard the sound of running water, and registered that John had released him and was tending to the practicalities of cleaning up. He knew he ought to shed his soiled garments and help in the endeavour, but his hands could only grip the porcelain basin and wait.

“Let’s get you out of these.” There was a tug at his waistband, and Sherlock looked down to see careful fingers unbuttoning his trousers. “Up you go.” A gentle hand on his lower back guided him to stand, and John pried the zip loose and sank to the tile, bringing pants and slacks with him. He took a moment to quickly untie Sherlock’s shoes, slip them off, and set them aside, before threading each foot out of trouser legs and briefs. With almost reverent attention, he drew off each sock, caressing pale ankles as he went. He handled Sherlock’s feet as though they were made of glass, stroking down the smooth skin on top, tracing the prominent veins, cupping the calloused heels. Sherlock had no illusions about his feet — yes, his ankles tapered pleasingly from his strong calf muscles, but below the malleolus they were his base, his foundation, sacrificed daily on the altar of dance. They were there to serve a purpose, but they were not beautiful. They were worn, oft-abused, tough and resilient. Yet John was touching them worshipfully, as if they were spun from the finest gold filigree.

“I would love to see you dance, someday,” he whispered. “I’m sure you’re amazing.”

He looked up at Sherlock through golden lashes, and Sherlock wanted to say _No, John, you’re the amazing one_ , but the words stuck in his throat and he could only nod. John’s face broke into a blazing smile of pure joy, and Sherlock tried to commit every micron to memory, while knowing that any simulacra would pale in comparison to this shining moment.

John’s gaze started to wander, down Sherlock’s bare chest, skimming over his nude form to land on the dark nest of curls between his legs, and Sherlock’s prick gave a twitch of interest. Here was John, knelt before him, staring as though he wanted to devour him whole, when he had so recently done just that. Some part of Sherlock wondered that John was not bored with him yet, but the hunger in his eyes was unmistakable. John licked his lips, then pressed them tight together, clearly trying to hold himself back.

“First things first.” He stood and shucked off his red thong without fanfare. His gorgeous cock sprang forth, flushed and proudly at attention. Sherlock couldn’t help the audible gasp that escaped his lips. His mouth watered at the sight, and he felt he might actually die if he did not learn its taste.

Before he could move to complete this thought, John had turned away, presenting him with another mouth-watering view as he leaned over the taps. He fiddled with the temperature, gluteal muscles flexing with every slight shift of his hips, and heat flooded Sherlock’s body, independent of the rising humidity. Soon steam filled the small room, weighing down Sherlock’s sweat-drenched curls and coating everything in a thick surreal haze.

John stood and turned back to Sherlock, his gaze burning through the fog like fire through mist.

“Come here, you absolute beauty.” His hands were on Sherlock’s arse, pulling him close, and Sherlock melted against him. He gave a little squeeze before dragging his fingertips up Sherlock’s back, splaying open to stroke his shoulders. Sherlock was acutely aware of John’s prick throbbing against his abdomen, but John seemed to pay it no mind. Once again, Sherlock was awed by the complete control this man had, over his own body, and Sherlock’s. _What would it take to break that control?_ Sherlock’s thighs clenched at the thought, suddenly overcome by the desire to have John push Sherlock to his limits, and for Sherlock to push back.

John pulled away, running his hands down Sherlock’s arms until he held Sherlock’s hands clasped in his own. He brought Sherlock’s hands together and up to his lips. He brushed his lips over Sherlock’s knuckles, softly, and the gesture was so tender, so sweet, that Sherlock’s breath caught in his chest. After all that John had already done to Sherlock throughout the night, all the places his mouth and hands had been, this light, almost chaste caress still caused Sherlock’s heart to thunder.

He lowered their hands, his lips curling into a warm smile as he stepped backward, leading Sherlock into the dense steam of the shower. The hot spray broke over John’s back, rivulets running down his neck, between his collarbones, across his chest. Sherlock followed their path, outlining every abdominal muscle, rejoining to wet the thatch of curling hair at the base of John’s cock. His fingers itched, desperate to reach out, slide over the slick skin, but he didn’t want to break the hold John had on his hands.

John manoeuvred him under the spray, then dropped his hands and reached for a bottle of shower gel _(extra moisturising, unscented, yet carries a distinct aroma of vanilla nonetheless)_. Sherlock blinked in surprise.

“Shower gel?” It was incongruent with his expectations _(plain bar soap, whatever’s cheap, functional)_ , but John had consistently defied Sherlock’s expectations for the night. Delightfully, wonderfully, incredibly so.

John looked slightly embarrassed. “Yeah, it helps keep my skin nice for the stage. Looks better if it’s smooth and shiny under the lights, instead of the condition the desert leaves it in.” He flicked the cap and squeezed a fat dollop on his palm. “Feels better too.” He set down the bottle and rubbed his hands together, white foam starting to form, then slid them down Sherlock’s chest. It was slippery silk, practically frictionless, and Sherlock groaned at the sensation. The feel of John's hands gliding over his body was indescribably pleasurable, an intoxicating slick-slide that made his skin tingle, hungry for more. He wanted John's hands everywhere at once, to feel those strong hands skimming over every inch of him without resistance, to be entirely covered in hot, wet, slippery John.

John was tracing his pectorals, trailing foam over his abdominals, sliding his thumbs over his iliac crests. When his hands slipped around his hips and down silky smooth over his arse, they both let out shuddery moans.

"Christ, I've been wanting to do that all night," John panted. He kneaded Sherlock's cheeks, and the layer of foam grew frothy and thick under the slick pressure. It was unlike any sensation Sherlock had ever known, this decadent creamy slide of skin on skin, and he gasped at the overwhelming pleasure of it. The unique sensations John was bestowing on his body were utterly absorbing, all-consuming. All thought fled from his mind beyond the present moment, the feel of John slick against him. Sherlock had only ever experienced respite from the constant mental chatter of his overactive brain when he was dancing, and even then only rarely. He cherished those fleeting moments of being one with his body, no longer consciously aware of his muscles and form and choreography, his entire being a perfect empty vessel for the dance to flow through. Yet still in those moments, his body was mere transport, a tool put to use in the pursuit of a goal, the medium through which his art was expressed.

This was entirely different.

He was experiencing his body in a way he had never before, as a vehicle for pleasure—no, it _was_ pleasure, it was the means and the end, with no higher purpose to serve than this union of flesh. Every cell was alive, every nerve on fire, every neuron alight with singular intent.

John was pressed tight against him, squeezing and stroking and rutting in a relentless rhythm. “You have— _the_ most—incredible—arse,” he managed to gasp out between heaving breaths. His grip tightened and his fingers slipped through the foam and slid into Sherlock’s cleft. Instantly, Sherlock’s legs gave way, his vision going fuzzy and white around the edges. John’s strong arms were around his waist holding him steady before he even had a chance to process. “Easy now, I’ve got you.” John guided him to the wall and pressed him up against the cool tile. Their breathing was ragged as they both struggled to collect themselves. John shook his head and ran a hand over his now worryingly lined face, the other still firmly supporting Sherlock’s weight. “Shit, sorry about that.” Sherlock flushed and turned to face the shower wall, unbearably embarrassed by his lack of control.

“Hey, hey.” John touched his shoulder, but Sherlock slid further away. “You okay?” Sherlock tried to swallow down the lump of shame in his throat.

“I’m fine.” The words came out terse through his tight larynx.

“I’m sorry, I’m moving too fast for you, aren’t I? I slipped, honest, I didn’t mean—“

“I said it’s fine.” Sherlock couldn’t stand the apologetic note in John’s tone, the soft and caring tenderness underneath. It made his chest ache and his jaw clench. He did not need to be handled with kid gloves, yet his ridiculous body was failing to obey, continually giving John the wrong impression. He needed to fix this, and disabuse John of the notion that he would fall apart at the slightest provocation.

Propping himself against the tile with forearm, he reached behind him with his other hand and grabbed John’s hip. With an impatient jerk, he yanked John flush up against his back. John gasped as he made contact with Sherlock’s arse.

“Sh—Sherlock!” John’s surprise only egged Sherlock on. He gave another insistent tug, and John’s cock slotted into Sherlock’s slick crack. “ _Fuck_.” John’s hands gripped his hips and Sherlock melted back against him.

“Yes,” he murmured, barely a whisper. John leaned in, mouth open and wet along his neck, and at the scrape of teeth, Sherlock groaned, his knees buckling again. John pulled him close and chuckled against his ear.

“So that’s how it is, hmm?” He tightened his grip and Sherlock rocked back against him in response. “You like a bit of rough, don’t you, pretty boy?” Sherlock could only pant and writhe, John’s words doing unspeakable things to his body. “God, you’re so sensitive, you just fall to pieces at the slightest touch.” Sherlock wanted to refute this assessment, defend his (previously unassailable) self-control, but considering the state he was in, he knew he quite literally had no legs to stand on. John nipped at his earlobe, bringing forth a fresh wave of shudders. “You have no idea how fucking hot it is, do you?” Sherlock shook his head. He was a weak, trembling mess. How could John possibly find this attractive? John, who was strong and steady and in control. Just the thought that he was currently supporting his weight while fully aroused and thrusting against him brought another surge of hot want mixed with shame coursing through his veins.

“Seeing you like this, it does things to me. Makes me want things… things that I shouldn’t want.” He spoke it like a dark confession. Sherlock was desperate to know what John could possibly want that would stir such feelings of guilt, but at the same time knew he would eagerly do whatever John wanted. There was nothing he would refuse him. He wanted to be used for John’s pleasure, to fulfil his hidden desires.

“Anything,” he gasped, shocked at his own boldness.

John’s fingers flexed on his hips. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Please…” Sherlock’s voice receded to a whisper. _“Captain.”_

With a low growl, John slammed up against him, pressing him tight against the shower wall. Blunt fingernails dug at his waist, and Sherlock could see the bruise pattern forming in his mind’s eye. It was beautiful.

“Captain now, is it? Christ, Sherlock, you don’t know what you’re asking for.” Sherlock bucked back, tilting his arse up and down in a frantic rhythm against John’s prick.

“I do, I do, please, John, I want it.” He wasn’t sure what he was asking for, not really, but he knew he wanted more, wanted all that John had to give him. John’s iron grip stilled his hips, and they stood there for a long moment, suspended in a tense embrace. Sherlock could feel the instant John gave in: a slight release in his shoulders, a huff of air on his back.

“Fuck, fine, just… tell me if it’s too much.”

“Yes, John.”

There was a sharp prick of teeth at his neck. “That’s Captain Watson to you.”

“Yes, Cap—” The words stalled in his chest as he was thrust against the wall, _hard_ , by a shoulder to the centre of his back. A hand slid around to grip his cock while the other held his hip in place, the thumb cupping the curve of his cheek.

“Do you know what we do with recruits who don’t know how to address their superior officers?”

“N-no, Captain Watson.” But _god_ , was he eager to find out.

“We show them who’s in charge.” The hand on his cock started to move, firm and slightly too fast, short strokes concentrated on the shaft, never even brushing the sensitive head. “I know how to handle a loaded weapon, and I know how to keep it from going off in my hand.” Sherlock bit his lip and choked back a whimper. He was hard and wanting but he knew he wouldn’t be able to come like this. John was holding back his pleasure, torturing him with the distant promise of release. The hand at his hip moved over his arse, squeezing and kneading rough circles into the muscles beneath.

“Mmm, so tight. So round and smooth and sweet… succulent, yeah, that’s the word. Your arse is fucking edible.” John ducked his head to lick a stripe down Sherlock’s spine, and Sherlock gasped as he felt John’s tongue curl around the base of his coccyx, just barely dipping into his cleft. _No, he wouldn’t… would he?_ Sherlock trembled, and as if transmitted by electric current, a blush flooded every inch of his skin. The very idea of John’s tongue _down there_ was unbearably filthy, and Sherlock was suddenly much too hot. The steam, the water, the heat suffusing his body, it was too much, he was sweating and panting and oh god was John really going to do _that?_ And—more worrying—why did the thought make his cock twitch and strain?

Sherlock’s internal crisis was swiftly averted by a graze of teeth over his left gluteal muscle and a light slap across the right, followed by a firm squeeze. Sherlock moaned at the mix of sensations, the hand on his cock still pumping away as his cheeks tingled with a tantalising hint of pleasure-pain.

Just as abruptly as he’d started, John withdrew and stood again. The hand on Sherlock’s arse released, and Sherlock immediately missed its pressure.

“More!” He only registered the sound after it had left his mouth, thin and reedy with desperation, foreign to his own ears. The hand on his prick stilled.

“What was that, cadet?” The voice at his back was ironclad, unyielding. Sherlock swallowed and gathered his courage.

“P-please, sir. I want… more.” The last word fell away to a whisper, but he pressed his hips back in clear invitation.

“More…” the Captain mused. “More what?” Sherlock dropped his head down on the crook of his elbow, watching the water drip from his hair and mix with the foam swirling at his feet as he tried to regain his voice.

“Your hand, sir.” He paused, feeling his face flame with his desires. “On my backside.” _Backside?_ Mortifying, but he wasn’t about to say bum or buttocks or rear, and certainly not arse.

“Mmm,” came the rumble at his ear. “Like this?” John’s hand was back on his arse, rubbing and kneading, and Sherlock sighed at the touch, but shook his head against his arm.

“N-no, Captain. I mean, yes, that’s good too, I like that, but… that other thing you did. The, uh—” He couldn’t say spank, he just couldn’t, but slap or hit seemed perhaps too much, and oh god weren’t there less embarrassing words in the English language? “—the discipline, that you gave me. More of that.” His eyes were burning hot with shame and his lips worn from biting but he had to continue, he wanted, _needed_ this. “Please.”

He could hear John’s breath catch in his throat.

“You need some more punishment, cadet?” John’s voice was raw, slightly hoarse but clear. Unwavering. Solid.

“Yes, sir,” he breathed.

The sharp sting across his cheek was already fading to a dull warmth by the time the crack of John’s palm echoed in Sherlock’s ear. The heat spread down his thigh and up his back, and Sherlock nearly keened for more.

“Like that, do you?” John bit his shoulder and Sherlock slid forward, chest flush against the shower wall.

“Yes, Captain Watson.”

Another crack, and Sherlock snapped his hips back, eager for more.

“Harder.” He was panting and breathless and unbelievably aroused. “ _Sir._ ”

John made a deep primal noise, and finally let loose. His palm came down again and again, unerringly landing on target: the soft sweet flesh of Sherlock’s ample arse. It blazed with heat, every strike a jolt of pure energy that surged through his body, chased by a delicious burn that only made him hungry for more. When his skin buzzed on the edge of oversensitivity, John’s hands stilled to hover over his reddened arse.

“Christ, I can feel the heat coming off you. Still okay?” Sherlock nodded, but couldn’t stop his sharp intake of breath when John’s fingernails grazed the tender flesh. John retraced the path of his nails with the pads of his fingers, light and soothing. “I know what you need.” There was the click of a cap and then cool gel being drizzled over his burning cheeks. Sherlock shivered as it trickled down his cleft and dripped over his balls. Then John’s fingers returned to caress and coax it into a lather. Soon the slick slide gave way to froth, the soft tickle of an aerated layer of suds gliding between them. It was luxurious and maddening in turns. His tingling skin was alight with sensation, and the gentle kiss of millions of tiny bubbles was unbearably delicate in a way that made his thighs shake.

John’s left hand slid around to stroke his cock again, bringing with it a fresh fistful of foam to ease the way. Sherlock immediately bucked into his touch, desperate for firm contact, but John kept his grip loose. His other hand smoothed over Sherlock’s arse, and a finger slipped between his cheeks, the tip sliding over his hole. Sherlock gasped as suddenly everything tightened and tensed, drew up in suspense: his sphincter muscles, his testicles, his foreskin, his nipples. Taut and trembling, waiting.

“Is this all right?”

Sherlock whined in assent.

“I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes, sir, I want more.”

“More of this?” The slick finger circled his entrance, gently probing, the tip barely slipping in. Sherlock gasped out a “yes please,” breathy and helpless.

“You’re going to have to relax.” Sherlock let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding, took in another, willed his straining muscles to release. John rubbed his thumb over Sherlock’s coccyx in small, soothing arcs, back and forth, and Sherlock focused on the hypnotic rhythm, timing his breath to each pass. Slowly, he felt his spine loosen, his body calm under John’s reassuring touch. John, steady and strong, guiding him through this new onslaught of sensation with confidence and ease.

John would take care of him.

The knowledge was absolute, surprising in its steadfast truth, but a comforting balm nonetheless. He sighed with genuine relief, and succumbed to the tide of John’s ministrations. John slid in, gentle but sure, and Sherlock’s body readily accommodated this benevolent intrusion as if it had only been waiting for permission to accept.

“That’s it, you’re doing so well.” John’s words washed over him, as warm and relaxing as the water at his back. “God, you feel amazing.” Sherlock felt himself clench and release, the praise sending pulses of pleasure through his entire being. Yes, more of that, more of John, more of those tender caresses of words and fingers that made him feel cared for in a way he never had before, filled to the brim with touch and emotion, whole and loved. Complete.

Tears pricked his eyes as the wave of sentiment crested in his chest, throat closing even as his body relaxed. What was this man doing to him? And why was Sherlock letting him?

But even as the intensity of the moment threatened to overtake him, Sherlock knew he could never regret this frightening vulnerability, would never hold back when it came to John. Against all odds, he trusted this man, whom he had only met a few short hours before. He knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that he was safe. It defied logic and reason, but that didn’t make it any less true.

John’s finger twisted and crooked inside him, and all thoughts vanished as searing pleasure shot through his body, blindingly intense.

“Okay?”

Sherlock convulsed, his body contorting with uncontrolled bliss.

“Oh god, yes, John, oh my god, fuck, please, ah, ahhhh…” He knew he was babbling but he was beyond caring. He had one driving thought, one desire: more.

In answer to his prayers, John tightened his hand around his all-but-forgotten cock, and resumed a steady rhythm, now with the addition of his finger stroking deep inside him. It was almost too much, the heat and thrum of desire coursing through him, driving him inexorably on. His stiff nipples rubbed against cool tile with each stroke, the contrasting temperature a welcome anchor amidst this frenzied madness. He pressed his forehead to the wall and stared down at his foam-covered cock sliding through the insistent ring of John’s fingers. The white froth oozing between his knuckles and welling up at crown and base was obscene, so reminiscent of the emissions soon to follow that for a moment Sherlock was swept up in the imagery, the idea of him covered in John’s semen, coating his prick and arse and balls, filling him, marking Sherlock as _his_. John taking him, owning him, everywhere.

John’s finger slipped out and pushed back in, curling with precision over _that_ spot and Sherlock was there, on the knife’s edge of pleasure-pain. John’s hand around him, John’s finger inside him, John’s body pressed against him, and yes, John _was_ everywhere, surrounding and filling and consuming him all at once. It was that realisation that brought his orgasm crashing over him, hard and relentless as the unyielding spray of the shower. He had heard that prostate stimulation could produce more intense orgasms—had even attempted it on himself, to unsatisfactory results—but none of his research or experimentation could have prepared him for this. If their earlier activities had been overwhelming, this was devastating, a tsunami of sensation, tearing through Sherlock’s body with the merciless power of a force of nature. Any shred of control he may have possessed was swept away in a flood of white hot pleasure. He was no longer aware of limbs or skin or breath, he was no longer aware of anything, his consciousness had been fused with the rush passing through him, his corporeal form a vessel for the pervasive feeling of complete acceptance. And right on the heels of the thunderous crest of his climax came wave after wave of the purest warm feelings for which he hadn’t any words, affection not limited to a mere tightness in his chest or lump in his throat, but coursing through his whole body, every cell pulsing _yes_.

Distantly, he became aware that he was weeping, the shudders of orgasm giving way to wracking sobs of intense relief, that ineffable emotion pushing tears out of his eyes against all will or reason. He dropped his head, letting the water run off his hair and mingle with the saline streaming down his cheeks. His body was limp in John’s arms, all but collapsed in on itself, and he knew he would be a pathetic crumpled heap in the tub basin were it not for John’s unerring strength. John didn’t seem to have yet realised the emotional outpouring currently tearing through him, and Sherlock was grateful for the shield of wet hair blocking his face from view.

The whole thing was ridiculous. He wasn’t _sad_ , god, of course he wasn’t sad, and anyway Sherlock hadn’t cried since he was seven, and he’d certainly endured pain and heartache since then. He knew how to deal with sadness.

He did not know how to deal with this, whatever _this_ was.

John was rubbing his nose along Sherlock’s spine, tracing each vertebra and chasing the path with his lips.

“Okay?”

Sherlock nodded, not trusting his voice. John pressed a soft kiss to his left shoulder blade, and the tenderness brought a fresh wave of tremors to Sherlock’s skin. John laid his cheek against Sherlock’s back and sighed.

“That was…”

“…perfect,” Sherlock whispered into the staccato beat of the shower.

“Mmm.” John nuzzled the tender bit just under Sherlock’s arm, the barest hint of stubble abrading his skin, and Sherlock leaned back into the gentle burn. He felt warm and tingly and that pervasive feeling he couldn’t _(wouldn’t)_ name. He also felt John’s hard length pressed up against his hip, and chose to focus on that rather than the churning emotions still too close to the surface for comfort. Dropping an arm from the shower wall, he snaked his hand back to John’s hip, nudging him over to align his cock with Sherlock’s cleft. John hissed and stepped back, putting space between them while still holding onto Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock swallowed, and tried not to feel bereft.

“What about you?” He looked over his shoulder, eyes carefully averted from John’s, staring pointedly at John’s erection. God, how long _has_ he been hard? It must be uncomfortable, yet John was keeping his distance. Fear twisted in his gut, cold and painful. “Don’t you want me?” His voice wavered embarrassingly, plaintive and weak to his ears.

Warm strong hands glided over his body, turned him away from the wall, and held him close.

“Of course I want you. How can you even ask such a thing?” The hands roamed up his back and over his shoulders, soothing and reassuring. “God, I’ve never wanted anyone so much in my entire life.” They slid down his arms to grip his biceps, and John stepped back again. Sherlock kept his eyes downcast, unable look at the man still holding him at arm’s length.

“Then why don’t you want to…” His voice trailed off as his fingertips followed his gaze up to John’s cock.

“I do, I—” He choked back a gasp as Sherlock’s fingers curled around him, stroking the hot, hard flesh. “Sh—Sherlock!” John’s hand on his wrist stilled him. “Stop.” Oh god, did he do it wrong? Sherlock wanted to pull away, to run out of the bathroom, out of the flat, but John’s other hand came up to cup his cheek, turning his face up. “Hey, look at me. Please.” Sherlock forced his gaze to meet John’s, and found him staring back with a mix of affection and desire.

“Everything’s okay, more than okay. It’s amazing, it’s too good, actually.” Sherlock furrowed his brow, and John chuckled to himself. “Look, I’m not as young and…” John’s gaze flitted to Sherlock’s crotch and back up, almost bashful. “…resilient as you are. You already made me come in my pants like a teenager in the back of that cab. I don’t know how much I’ve got left in me tonight, and I don’t want to risk blowing it all now.” He leaned forward, eyes dark and intent. “I have plans for you, so many plans…” His voice had dropped to a low rasp. Sherlock swallowed. “Enough for a lifetime.” His tongue swiped his bottom lip, and Sherlock wanted to capture it with his mouth, suckle it until John’s steadfast control broke, and he took his pleasure without restraint. But his curiosity was piqued— _what plans?_ —so he held back and waited.

“I don’t want to come just yet, not here, like this.” He released Sherlock’s arms and turned off the taps. The sudden silence in the small space was nearly deafening. “I’m going to take you to bed, Sherlock Holmes, and I’m going to take you apart, and I’m going to take all bloody night.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update at last! Thank you all for your patience. We love you dearly ♥

**Author's Note:**

> This collaboration has been so much fun, and we hope you enjoy it as much as we've enjoyed writing it! Say hi to us on tumblr: [iamjohnlocked4life](http://iamjohnlocked4life.tumblr.com/) and [deduce-my-heart](http://deduce-my-heart.tumblr.com) ~ we're both friendly and love to chat!


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